


Deliverance

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Author's horrible sing along tags, Domestic Violence, Fake Christianity, Forced Pregnancy, Heterosexual smut: A Brief Segment of this Fic, Impossible! For an axe wielding bumpkin and a prince to join in marriage, JizzJazz, John stab it Edrisa slab it, John won't go to bed til you're legally dead you won't get Johnny's D, Just singin' in the tags what a glorious feeling, KICK!, M/M, Malcolm screams, Marking, Mentions Necrophilia, Mpreg, Sexual Slavery, Singin' in the tags, Suicidal Thoughts, The Profiler's Lament, Why can't a necro ever once prefer a feral twink like Mal?, You're the one that I whomp doo wop a doo wop hoo hoo hoo honey!, no beta we die like men, waiter this dead dove tastes like chicken, whomp whomp in the what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: John impregnates Malcolm.  How would Gil fit into Malcolm's life after John?[ P R E V I E W ]Pain, magnified to levels which nearly killed him, seared through his flesh, bled into his mind, stained his soul.  If he was on fire before, Malcolm knew greater suffering as each flame licked red hot iron barbs into his pores."Get up.  Walk with me," John commanded.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Comments: 19
Kudos: 33
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	1. Hollow bones rushing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KateSamantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateSamantha/gifts).



> ***GUYS THIS IS NOT MY USUAL FLUFF***
> 
> Rules in my ABO Fantasy: 
> 
> Gone are the days of barbarism when women's lines wrap around stadiums. Bathrooms are unisex with mandated diaper changing stations. Coin machines for tampons/pads are expected though not required. Small businesses usually leave a store brand box of tampons to avoid bitchy yelp reviews. Nursing lounges are mandated for businesses licensed for large capacity seating though public breastfeeding offends no one ever.
> 
> Alpha females and omega males are hermaphrodites. Breasts develop in preggo males. Omega males can do short-term hormone therapy and weight lifting for breast reduction. Omegas who prefer masculine terms can also safely bind their breasts or opt for mastectomies after child birthing years. 
> 
> Cross dressing is a norm in elitist coastal cities and rust belt towns, though modest dress is preferred in the rurals. You will respect pronouns or get Bible whacked some parts of the US of A.
> 
> Because of Big Pharma, the suppressants that cost ehhh maybe 5 toonies in Canada for a 30 day supply cost $500. Even wealthy omegas restrict suppressant doses for the week of their anticipated cycle but fuck 'em cuz their families are part of the problem.
> 
> Suppressants null heat cycles. An omega male is either on suppressants or on the rag or preggo. An alpha can only develop a knot and impregnate an omega off their suppressants.
> 
> Marking is permanent. An alpha cannot exert their authority over an omega who they knot but don't Mark. 
> 
> Alpha voice works on omega(s) who an alpha exclusively Marks and presumably knots. No effect on betas or free-range omegas.
> 
> :)

John held him hostage inside an unfinished cellar with one standing emergency light and a canvas bag flapped open. Malcolm spotted an assortment of large tools which included a hatchet, a hammer, and a greasy crowbar. Like a true low life John did not stop with his bad behavior after capturing Malcolm and binding him in chains. 

John dangled an iPhone before his face. The selfie camera scanned Malcolm's features and registered a match which unlocked the iPhone.

John scanned Malcolm's face one more time to disable the password function on the phone's settings.

Malcolm detected flowing from outside the windowless room, a drawn out sound spilling into his ears like a river and rippling through the solid floor until he could almost feel it on his legs. The musty dampness and the odor of mildewed stone hinted at their subterranean location.

"No signal," John grunted, confirming what Malcolm's senses told him. 

He was underground with a judgey phone thief.

"What's with the bird?" John asked, scrolling through endless thumbnails of Malcolm's parakeet in consecutive photos and videos. Photos of himself and Ainsley were few and far between, with his mother's image rare as saints.

John scratched his head with the flat end of a kitchen knife. Everything about him was gray.

"That's my Sunshine," Malcolm answered. Anxiety crossed his features. "I filled her water but I didn't top off her feeder."

Malcolm was blinded by the flash when John took his picture.

"It's a bird, Malcolm. It will eat the worms that'll eat your sorry carcass," John said.

"I beg to differ. My budgie boo eats pellets, kale, and grass seeds. She's my loyal lady," informed Malcolm. "Did you never have a pet growing up? Nothing little that adored you?"

"Yeah," said John. He didn't elaborate or clarify his response.

"I need signal," said John, raising Malcolm's phone and squinting. "Don't go away now."

Laughing, John tucked the knife into his belt and headed towards a metal door, one that was painted a utilitarian dull beige.

"John! Why do you need signal?" asked Malcolm, his chains clinking as he pulled them taut, scrabbling to bring himself closer.

"I'm gonna get in touch with your mother, get her to come downstairs. Gotta show her something. It's to die for." John quirked his lips.

"Don't call my mother! Don't leave me alone, please. Stay. Talk to me. I'll listen. You know how it feels to be locked in darkness," he begged pitifully.

"I do. That's why I shined a light for you, Malcolm," said John.

This time when John opened the door, Malcolm's head cocked and his ears perked, tuning into more data he could extrapolate. He picked up on repetitive grinding which segmented the roaring flow he detected earlier. The cool air and the smell of dirt and dust hit him at once. The gears turning the world thrummed into his hands and knees as he pleaded for John to stay.

"Turn back please. I don't understand. Help me understand. Can you stop and talk a little longer?" Malcolm begged, stalling for time as his thoughts caught up to his observations.

“No, we’re going on with you to your people,” quoted John. His tone changed as though he were speaking another's words.

He left Malcolm to the frenetic mental task of figuring out the source of what he quoted. 'Your people' was Biblical, Old Testament, but which book? What was the context of religion within this dark hour? John had taken his phone, so there went his one tool to look it up.

Yet John had given Malcolm more than he meant to. His phone had displayed a flurry of notifications the day after Christmas, when John had taken him and dragged him home, to the beginning. John had taken Malcolm to his family's house, would make Malcolm watch as he destroyed it.

John returned more quickly than expected. He found Malcolm sprawled forward, neck straining, jaws clamping the canvas strap to drag the tools to himself. Malcolm tasted sweat and grease, but desperation overrode his disgust. He was dry heaving after John kicked the bag from his teeth.

Smell and taste were more amplified within Malcolm than normal, different from the sharpened senses he experienced when he closed his eyes and shut out visible distractions. He was also quicker to submit to his captor by kneeling and asking for favors and telling John more information about himself than what he was learning from John. 

The entire time he spoke with John, he wanted to rip his shirt off because his sweat dripped along his spine. Though the fabric rode up, it was inadequate for venting the fever prickling everywhere, the worst of it under his pits. Putting his mouth onto the canvas amped up the heat gnawing his focus. He could taste John. Malcolm whined into the industrial black mats where he lied on his belly. His jeans were rasping his skin and his sexual parts were firing off needful signals to his brain when he forced his legs closed.

John laughed, deep from his belly, and Malcolm twitched when John squatted beside him and grabbed his hair.

"You're getting a bit ripe there," said John. John put his knife to Malcolm's throat and Malcolm immediately pressed his hot skin into the cool metal.

John rolled him onto his back and cut Malcolm's shirt open with his knife.

"I usually like 'em more quiet. You'd be real pretty if you were dead," John said. 

Despite his prompt mockery, John's movements slowed as he shifted from a squat into a loose crouch. Malcolm shivered when John touched his throat and thumbed his chin. 

"Then end it, if you don't need me alive for what you're about to do," Malcolm dared him.

"I was going to have your mom in for a surprise visit but I'm getting no text back. Are you that much of a loser that your own mom wouldn't give you the time of day?" John asked. He wiped the iPhone and tossed it to the mat.

"What will you do now?" Malcolm asked. He could feel John thinking up contingencies for action.

"I wanted to hurt you bad but I'd waste my time killing your family if you're not close with them. Gonna cut my losses on this one," John sighed in annoyance.

Malcolm shivered from John's breath on him. If he didn't hate his body prior to the symptoms of missing a dose of his heat suppressants, he totally loathed himself now, recoiled from his instinctive response to John's proximity. The nightmares would claw into his mind, turning his own arms and legs against himself, but the impending heat would burn up his hard won shred of humanity. In the company of monsters, Malcolm needed to keep his heart.

"Will you let… me go?" Malcolm asked, hardly daring to believe his luck. He bit his tongue because he almost slipped and said "let my family go." He needed to sound selfish because if he loved them, they would die.

"That would be cruel of me. Your own family doesn't want you," John said.

"Then you'll kill me, end it here," Malcolm uttered. Every day of his life led to this; he could accept his brutal death.

"You've got it wrong, little omega," said John. He tucked away his knife, indicating that murder, for now, was off the table.

Malcolm's heart thudded in fear and dread as John lifted his own gray shirt. Yet John didn't remove his clothes. Instead, John turned his left side to the emergency light, illuminating an old scar.

"This was from you when you were a brat," John said. He let Malcolm inspect the scar.

"I… I did this to you?" Malcolm didn't believe it though the positioning of the wound, the thickness of the scar, and the length of it was consistent with his child self as the aggressor armed with his old knife.

"I must have," Malcolm affirmed. "I can't remember though. We found my knife inside your station wagon. You kept it?!" Malcolm was dizzy as the puzzle pieces melded in the heat of his thoughts.

"I kept your knife and a pretty big grudge against you. Made really petty choices so now it's time for me to clean up my act and do differently," John confessed.

John stripped Malcolm's shirt from him and sniffed along his chest, beard gray on Malcolm's erect nipples, leaving a scent trail that would be on Malcolm every moment after this one. Shutting his blue eyes unwittingly escalated each sensation and Malcolm's pliant body drank up each touch.

"I'm going to love you. This time I'll get it right," he promised. 

John bit down, sinking his teeth into Malcolm's left side, leaving his mark like Malcolm did to him many fated years ago. Malcolm screamed as slick pooled in his jeans. Pain, magnified to levels which nearly killed him, seared through his flesh, bled into his mind, stained his soul. If he was on fire before, Malcolm knew greater suffering as each flame licked red hot iron barbs into his pores.

" **Get up. Walk with me** ," John commanded.

Malcolm fought the command, but John had marked him as an alpha. Each second of resistance against his alpha barbed into Malcolm's nerve endings and he almost passed out from his disobedience. Malcolm's tears wet his neck. When Malcolm could stand, he doubled over and vomited sour juices from his miserable guts, woozy from a fever that would not break. 

John loosed the chains, but Malcolm would never be free of him. He limped after John who took him further underground. Though Malcolm was barefoot on concrete, he was fire walking through jagged coal.

* * *

Gil brought both Jessica and Ainsley to his precinct not long after Owen Shannon's murder. While he knew that John Watkins didn't do ransoms, Gil knew the Whitlys too damn long to let them wander into astonishingly near fatal dangers. Though Gil braced himself for both of their personalities, he nipped into his private stash before meeting them. Gil pictured Malcolm's face if he allowed anything to happen to Jessica and Ainsley.

Ainsley was the first to arrive on the scene. JT escorted her into Gil's office. She had her phone out, thumbs ready to fire off notes.

"Uncle Gil," Ainsley said, pillowing her bottom lip. "The FBI are involved, you have to dish."

"We're waiting on your mom. I don't feel like repeating myself more than I will have to," Gil said. He briefly touched her head, tucking back a wavy section that fell over her eye.

"Nooo, stop it Uncle Gil," Ainsley protested. "That's there on purpose!"

"That infraction's on me," Gil said, putting both hands in the air. "I wouldn't change a thing about you, young lady."

"Please, Gil. I'm not the favorite." Ainsley flipped her hair. "Mother's going to take forever with all the call's she's getting about the bracelet. Can you spill the beans for me and Mal when he gets here? Mother will totally go off on him for skipping a Whitly holiday dinner."

Before Gil could answer, Jessica practically kicked down the door in her high heel booties. The ferociously appalled expression on her face froze and chipped off when she didn't see Malcolm. Jessica briefly turned when Dani shut the door behind her.

"Sit, Jessica," Gil suggested. "Please."

While Jessica was an omega, and she smelled extremely pleasing to Gil's senses beneath her cosmetics, she didn't have to do anything Gil ordered. Her alpha was penned up at Claremont, ideally until she could flush his ashes.

"Jessica, you'll want to sit for this one."

"I want the whole truth, Gil. Don't hold back," Jessica warned. She crept into the chair and grabbed at Ainsley's hands.

"Watkins has Malcolm. I need the both of you available should Watkins reach out to NYPD. Watkins may even want to get in touch with The Surgeon. He's not behaving predictably."

Gil produced the color copies of the Watkins family album.

"In the meantime, you would be doing me a huge favor if the both of you examine these photos for any clues to where Watkins is hiding."

It went without saying that Gil was giving them work to keep them from merrily skipping into Watkins' grasp. To prevent further leaks to the public, he limited their photo access to within the precinct.

"No press," Gil said, pulling the file back momentarily before Ainsley could dig in.

"I get to ask the first question when you guys broadcast your next conference," Ainsley said.

"Deal," agreed Gil. He saw the pride in Jessica's face.

"Ew, what the?" Ainsley muttered.

"John scratched out his face in every picture. His grandmother is blind so he got away with it. Only Malcolm knows John's face," Gil said.

"My baby," Jessica moaned. She touched her forehead and freaked out when the alarms went off on her phone.

"Excuse me. I muted notifications for an hour but I forwarded the calls to my team on call duty." Jessica went out into the hall to deal with her self-inflicted chaos.

Gil saw horrified realization dawn in Ainsley's quick eyes and sink her small chin. Ainsley slapped down a photo of knick knacks inside the Watkins residence.

"I have an angel just like this one," Ainsley whispered as though she saw a ghost.

"Ainsley, a lot of people buy these for their prayer altars," said Gil. "That won't narrow our search."

"Gil, you don't get it. I got my angel from Mr. Boots. He was a ghost in my house. In my basement. Just before father's arrest, Mr. Boots gave me the angel like the one in this photo."

Ainsley closed her eyes. "A bit shorter than father. Top teeth crooked in his beard. Black hair. Black eyes. White, maybe. But he looked gray. Younger than father. I can see his face, oh no. He's gone."

No sooner did Ainsley drop her bomb shell news did Jessica throw open Gil's door once more, shrieking as she showed Gil a picture of Malcolm's bloody face, sent from his phone.

Gil had to put the brakes on ideas brainstormed by his detectives and federal agent Collette Swanson who targeted a cabin pictured in the Watkins family album.

"Before you waste our tax dollars, Special Agent Swanson, how about you check my house? In case your agency might have missed something the last time you entered my property. Such as a whole serial killer??" Jessica refused to be left out.

"And just how of your earnings made it to the IRS, Mrs. Whitly? Don't feign concern for a system that you're not paying into," Agent Swanson retorted.

"Can we get one search in at a local residence?" Gil loudly spoke, slamming his desk. "Excuse me ladies, but while you're catting, my... profiler is bleeding out."

"We can do a search. How soon can we get K-9?" Agent Swanson inquired.

"Jessica, when this is over, do me a favor and put up a For Sale sign on your house," Gil said before he turned to Agent Swanson. 

Gil had to hustle but with Agent Swanson on board for raiding the Whitly residence, Malcolm's chances of survival increased to above zero. Junior officers were charged with securing Jessica and Ainsley. Ainsley and Jessica were allowed to check in at a hotel but not without surveillance for their own protection.

Officers blocked off residential streets in Upper East side. Gil strapped on his vest, a mask, and eyeshields along with JT and Dani. They covered for Agent Swanson who took point, her voice almost pleasant as she cleared each room on the first level en route to the basement and directed a secondary ESU team to search the upstairs. 

Dani had to put on her game face as she looked away from where Dr. Whitly was arrested for 23 murders, away from Jessica's highball station, and definitely avoid the strapping portrait of great great uncle Douglas.

"Basement clear," Gil heard, but he wasn't giving up on Malcolm, not by a long shot. He was the one who flipped the switch for fluorescent lights once it was apparent they weren't sneaking up on Watkins.

The trained dogs were pushing against one another, sticking close to a generously varnished wood panel that decorated the back of a recessed alcove within the basement walls.

NYPD personnel had to evacuate the basement and wait for entry teams to detonate small plastic explosives on the false panel before re-entry. Once debris settled under the washed out fluorescent lighting, there was a collective silence on all comms.

"Reporting in. We see a tunnel. K-9 is responsive," stated the tech.

"Proceed with hostage extrication," Agent Swanson approved.

Gil met eyes with Agent Swanson after he hunched through the blasted tunnel opening. Neither of them needed dogs to confirm what their superior alpha senses picked up through the combusted explosives and melted varnish and charred wood.

Malcolm's scent echoed loud and clear in the enclosed passage.

"Shit. Arroyo, do not charge in!" Agent Swanson snarled, heading off Gil's quickened steps. "I don't need to file your death claim. I'm already staring at Bright's name for weeks."

Gil bit down a flustered growl, his maturity a boon as he brought his triggered aggression to heel.

Agent Swanson announced the newest complication to their rescue mission. "All alphas, be advised that the hostage is an omega off his suppressants. Alpha members, hang back. Beta team, advance."

Gil knew she was allowing him a prime spot in Malcolm's recovery, trusting Gil not to compromise himself or the search teams. Not even one day before, Gil was protecting Malcolm who intentionally provoked Shannon.

Face to face with the man who had hunted with The Surgeon, Malcolm would not keep his yap shut for police to find them unless Watkins gagged him. The latter thought of Malcolm gagged by Watkins sent another furious growl into the back of Gil's teeth.

Gil popped a cool blue mint to distract himself. No one had the right to touch Bright except for--

"Gil!" Dani grabbed his elbow. She was one of the betas who Agent Swanson allowed to have froward movement.

She wasn't done relaying more bad news when Gil sprinted to the end of the tunnel, chasing down Malcolm's scent. He whipped off the eye shield and budged ahead of armed police whose weapons pointed down. The rescue dogs were sniffing at all corners of the sealed and uninhabited room. A few tactical lights mounted on firearms revealed the small size of the room. The ceiling wasn't high: they saw the utility light fixture with incandescent bulbs from a burned out era of NYC's history.

If Gil closed his eyes, he could have been standing in paradise. He found a hidden room filled with intoxicating sweetness. Malcolm's scent wrapped around Gil in an unseen embrace, but he was nowhere Gil could reach.

Agent Swanson offered him the sole item left to them. It was Malcolm's shirt, buttoned closed but hanging open from rough cuts. It hung from Agent Swanson's gloves like a white flag.

"Arroyo. We'll get more lights. They couldn't have vanished," said Agent Swanson.

"I need the room for two minutes," said Gil.

"Gimme your firearm," she insisted.

Gil handed over his automatic rifle, intent on the little soft thing he held.

Swanson detached the mounted flashlight and placed it on the floor.

"Everyone leave the room for three minutes. Let's see about transporting standing lights and getting an engineer in here. I'll need to consult with a historian or architect who would archive blueprints of subway routes." Swanson's voice and the noise of dejected service members cut off as the heavily painted utilitarian door swung on its loud hinges.

Gil's nose hovered over the inner collar of Bright's shirt. He couldn't touch evidence directly, but he felt how warm Malcolm's shirt remained.

Once Malcolm's shirt was bagged for evidence and processed for samples, Gil waited for Edrisa's call. Edrisa skipped the phone call and ran into his arms as soon as she readied her findings.

Edrisa was not a woman who easily showed her personal feelings, brushing off unmentionable horrors with odd phrasings and off-center jokes. For her to be wiping her teary fogged glasses spoke volumes about her friendship with Malcolm.

Gil pulled Edrisa into his office for tissues over hot chocolate.

"Whatever you have to share, Edrisa, I encourage you to do it to the fullest. No holding out on me," Gil said.

Edrisa wiped her nose, runny from sipping the cup of hot chocolate at a molten temperature which steamed her glasses.

"Thanks Gil. It's different when you process your buddy," Edrisa said, faltering into a croak. She breathed in more cocoa and settled down under Gil's kind look. He was impatient but clearly biting it back.

"Blood was absent from Malcolm's shirt. I know, right? I double checked given Malcolm's reputation with workplace injuries. Forensic techs examined sections of matting and the underlying concrete which were marked as the area where the shirt rested. Also no blood."

Edrisa cupped her fingers around the hot cocoa. "We did, however, find visible stains where Malcolm was lying prone on the floor mat. The fluid we identified was the natural lubricant from Malcolm's secondary genitalia, typically secreted during omega fertility cycles. We also found impressions of chain links on the mat. That's one way in which Watkins subdued Malcolm."

Edrisa's mouth twitched and she lipped at the hot cocoa.

"Did Watkins rape Malcolm?" Gil asked.

"No semen was found on his clothes or anywhere inside that room," Edrisa said mechanically.

"That can't be right. I was there. We just--" Gil itched for a drink but he restricted his habit for celebrations and hurrahs. "We just missed them. I smelled Bright. Couldn't miss him. I also picked up on an alpha in the room with him. That had to be Watkins."

"The evidence makes it sound like Malcolm didn't resist or fight Watkins. What else could have happened?!" Gil demanded.

"We did find another chemical. There was discolored corrosion on the same mat square as omega slick. Swabbing the discoloration revealed the presence of hydrochloric acid, sodium, and potassium. Chromatography reports no skin or blood proteins which rules out chemical torture. Malcolm likely vomited on an empty stomach."

"Edrisa."

"Without any of Malcolm's blood or semen from either persons present, you've eliminated almost every way that an alpha could break an omega," said Edrisa. "While this isn't my area of expertise, I'm certain Watkins claimed Malcolm in that hide away. Once he marked him, Malcolm's body became keyed to his voice."

Gil's thoughts spun out into a room with no windows. 

"No. An alpha marking an omega without knotting them? To Bright?" Gil threw down his pencil and leapt to standing, fingers laced behind his neck as he paced furiously.

"That is taboo and almost impossible. Alphas are hard wired to mate 'n mark. A case where an alpha and an omega are both in the wrong place, wrong time is mutually tragic. The alpha is ruled by nature as much as the omega. You don't walk away from an omega you've joined. The drive is overwhelming!" Gil crossed his arms and tucked his hands under the sleeves of his sweater. "God damn it. What would this do to Bright?"

"Claiming bites physically hurt the omega, triggers deep pain that impresses an omega's mind and changes their behavior for life. For better or worse, omegas no longer belong to themselves and cannot oppose their alphas who have marked them. Without the counterbalance of knotting, an alpha risks trauma when they mark an omega," explained Edrisa.

"I could see Malcolm having a bad reaction to the bite and throwing up on the spot," Edrisa concluded.

"How bad?" Gil asked.

"Not much data to confirm, Gil. I would say you can suffer vision impairment, loss of consciousness, paralysis, convulsions, hematidrosis, etc. Malcolm has unbelievable limits but I can't gauge his tolerance for gender exclusive acute reactive neuralgia, especially if he prolongs involuntary negative responses by antagonizing a hostile alpha. But then again, it's Malcolm," said Edrisa.

Gil resumed sitting, the cushion of his chair flubbing air like a deflated tire. He didn't have it in him to shuffle around his papers. 

"Special Victims are going to get involved. If Bright's no longer acting on his own will, we need specialists to recover him," said Gil.

"We'll get him back, Gil. That knucklehead can't stay away," Edrisa said.

Gil wanted to smile, but he would have to save up his smiles for the day he saw Bright again with Watkins pushing up daisies.

"We live in a democratic city where omegas have the right to choose. For an alpha to claim an unwilling omega, well, I won't hesitate when I have eyes on Watkins," said Gil.

"Special Agent Swanson is expecting me to report in." He did not appear enthused. "I'm grateful you took time to explain the direness of our situation, Edrisa. You don't leave your slab for anything."

Edrisa straightened out her glasses.

"Where else am I going to get my lemony goodness, candy man? Certainly not online." Edrisa got her jollies off on Gil's desk from the ever present candy dish.

* * *

Malcolm Bright was put on unpaid administrative leave for extenuating circumstances but after half a year, Major Crimes withdrew him from payroll and Gil was directed to post one non-civil service vacancy for a criminal profiler. His private stash in his office remained untouched; he was stubborn about getting his next toast with Bright, wouldn’t cheapen that moment they’d share.

Gil was particularly tested when he darkened the doorway of Dr. Whitly’s holdings. Though John Watkins dragged Malcolm to a secret underground room, with discoveries that the Whitlys’ basement likely connected to corresponding spaces beneath neighboring properties, the homeowners of their residential block marshaled cease orders to keep out NYPD. Funds dried up for stakeouts at the cabin pictured in the Watkins family album confiscated from Ms. Matilda Watkins. Stakeouts were scaled back to one team reporting a monthly walk through of the cabin property where Watkins had previously squatted.

Gil’s first interview with Dr. Whitly yielded diddly squat. Martin was pickled from solitary, underestimating his daily requirement of validation. Surreal murders rolled in that would inevitably be the subject of documentaries, papering over the Watkins case which cooled to subzero. Gil had to put the investigation on back burner to focus on the family whose bodies were found stacked in their basement. They were all last seen alive on the evening of Valentine’s Day. Gil inspected the scene with a grape lollipop in his mouth to cover up the vodka. He hated the taste too much to get sauced on the stuff. 

He could almost hear Bright telling him to double down on his first impressions.

“It might look like Dad boarded up the house and turned on Mom and Junior. Dad doesn’t fit the profile. He’s a golfer, probably tees off in his corner office. You think Mr. Grand Slam would fix the doors so that no one could get out?” mused the treacherous imaginings of Gil’s mind.

Gil could almost smell Bright in the red brick townhouse between Fifth and Madison.

Agent Swanson remained in New York but in August she was reassigned to another priority investigation. Gil would’ve been resentful if her latest gig didn’t involve illegal immigrant children. Gil couldn’t do Swanson’s job. He had too large of a soft spot for the kids.

Gil steeled himself for another chat with Dr. Whitly. Summer was over and Gil wasn’t prepared to miss Christmas with Bright. Whatever was left of the little guy, Gil needed him back.

“I’m afraid this conversation will go rather redundantly. Officer,” said Martin.

“We’ll skip over the alpha BS. There. Fixed. Where else does Watkins call home?” asked Gil.

“As my girl cleverly discovered, John could ghost the walls of the house. There’s a brave world past my basement. More’s the pity,” said Martin.

“What do you want, Martin,” Gil stated.

“I would like my boy to come visit me, but you have not delivered, Officer,” answered Martin.

Gil crossed his arms and didn’t blink.

“I might recall critical details with a little field trip,” Martin hedged.

“I don’t think your neighbors or your family will roll out the red carpet for you.”

“Why would they? I’m old news, past due for public consumption,” Martin sighed.

“It’s your lucky day. The Dinklebergs flexed their civil liberties to impede my investigation.”

“Dinkleberg. He was on my to-do list,” Martin reminisced. “And just think, you saved his life via my arrest.”

Their enmity subsided.

“I’ll see what I can do about putting you deep in the ground,” Gil said.

On the last day of October, Jessica wore silk print heels, fresh nails, and her license to carry and conceal. She had her copy of War and Peace ready.

Ainsley wasn’t invited but there was no way she’d miss out on what was afoot at the Whitly house, New York’s infamous Bluebeard’s castle.

“What? No cameras?” Jessica said.

“I don’t see you putting out the canapés,” said Ainsley. “Besides, the cameras love him. I’m not giving that to Dr. Whitly.”

“Why today, of all days? It’s a Saturday. Is nothing sacred?” Jessica bemoaned to Gil.

“Claremont employees were only willing if they were compensated on double time,” said Gil.

They were standing around the living room area, twitching at shadows in the overcast light.

“Don’t you want Malcolm back for turkey?” reminded Gil.

Jessica and Ainsley both quirked their brows at him. Malcolm disliked turkey. Malcolm's concesssion to Thanksgiving was cranberry and vodka.

“You know what I mean,” said Gil.

The radio clipped to his belt sounded with an update on arrival time for their special guest.

“Trick or treat,” Martin greeted.

Martin was escorted by a man twice his breadth whose name tag read SAMSON. He looked fresh as though he had skulked directly from Jessica’s bad dreams in his layered orange jumpsuit, beige oatmeal sweater, and walking restraints.

“No tricks, Dr. Whitly,” said Gil.

Martin fairly twinkled as he gazed around cherished domestic comforts.

“Can I have a little treat?” Martin asked. His eyes went to the glass of bourbon on Jessica’s lips.

Martin laughed. “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.”

Jessica sashayed over to Martin, upending her drink on his curls.

“Ma’am!” Samson objected.

Martin licked his mouth, sucking the spirits onto his palate.

“Peace, Samson. I’m very much refreshed. I don’t suppose I could have a looky loo around my property? Might boost my recall of pertinent information.”

“If the mistress of the manor is amenable,” Martin simpered.

“Mother, just put him in the creepy basement,” said Ainsley.

“Will you join my entourage, my dear?” asked Martin. He edged closer to her.

“I’m here for my family,” said Ainsley, no backpedaling.

“Atta girl. You and your mother will give me quite the tour, I expect.”

“No deal,” refused Gil. “You will show deference to everybody in this house.”

“And just how many bodies are in this house, I wonder?” Martin retorted.

“I don’t care for games. We are here for Malcolm. My baby!” Jessica smacked at her heart. “If you alphas could please tamp down the testosterone. For shame!”

Martin’s chains rattled as he instinctively stepped to Jessica shielding herself with her own arms, swallowing tears that she drained down unshed, not one droplet escaping.

“I’ll lead the tour. You will pay close attention, Martin,” Jessica dared through her shadowed lids. 

Her hair shimmered like rapid waters at midnight, rippling like a pond encircling lovely moons. Martin didn’t follow her so much as he stalked her like a beast thinly bound by silver.

Jessica turned a stern eye on Gil who bristled at Martin clearly getting his rocks off from behind.

“What will you wear for the party tonight, Jessica?” asked Martin. Halloween fell on a Saturday this year.

“Your dead mother’s baubles. And a spritz of Febreeze.”

“Bitch,” Martin uttered longingly.

“Witch,” corrected Jessica, her heels clacking steadily. “I modeled my costume after a veritable witch. Thought you’d appreciate the authentic touches.”

Gil looked at Ainsley, who nodded 'yes' to confirm her witchy grandmother.

“Don’t you want to know what I’m going to be for Halloween?” Martin rejoined.

“On your tight leash, I hope.”

“Available, Jessica. I’ll be available,” said Martin.

"You hope," added Jessica, smirking.

“Can you guys not?” Ainsley cut in.

“I am not partying with a homicidal maniac. Not much of a costume,” Jessica said. “Resting on your laurels, Martin?”

“Oh, this?” Martin drawled, plucking at his orange jumper. “If I were to phone it in for Halloween, I would dress for the day job. Homicidal maniacs look just like everyone else.”

“Where would Watkins take Malcolm? While we’re on the topic,” Gil said.

“I can answer your queries in full when I’m physically ensconced underground,” assured Martin.

Martin’s stomach lodged its own complaint.

“I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a good nosh. And a little something for Samson who’s a growing boy,” quipped Martin.

“Uh, yeah, skip breakfast,” agreed Samson, in a rumbling baritone.

“My demands are simple. I can make do with sliced apples, pretzel crisps, or wedges of dairy-free cashew cheese. Perhaps a tray of vegan friendly canapés?”

Martin blinked back at their faces, a gradient of emotions ranging from dead stares to Samson’s skepticism over dairy-free cheese made from nut.

“What? Do you think I would have people for dinner with fava beans and a nice Chianti? I would have to substitute with non-GMO fair trade soylent green.”

“You don’t work, you don’t eat,” said Gil. “Where’s Watkins?”

“Oh, very well. I’ll show myself to the old digs, then?” sighed Martin.

If not for Samson, Gil would have kicked him off the third story landing rather than stomach more of the rage-inducing commentary.

Gil and his officers stood by with Martin and Claremont staff. They were secured separately from his Whitlys. Without a hot trail, they lacked search dogs or ESU support. However, Agent Swanson was en route to the Whitly residence. Because of weak phone service signals, Agent Swanson radioed in upon her arrival. She met them at the end of the tunnel connected to the cell were Malcolm was last known to be alive.

Gil’s team were intent on federal directives while Martin got a hold of a standing light and bashed it into a fine pipeline. Foul gases hissed into diminished visibility from shattered bulbs. Samson’s ham hock of a fist anchored Martin’s restraints but he thrust Martin bodily when Martin spiked jagged glass into the dorsal nerves, avoiding arteries running through the superficial arch of Samson’s great hand. Martin intended to maximize pain without severing tendon or incurring serious blood loss for the hapless and decent man charged to watch him.

Martin made off with the keys, crouching and pulling his top shirt over his nostrils to duck under the noxious sewage odors he had unleashed. He smelled the bourbon which Jessica had poured on him, nearly tasted her kiss. While NYPD were upending the contents of their guts, Martin fled, sucked in his chest, and squeezed himself through a doorway camouflaged as a rounded support column, revolving like a turntable. He didn’t look back, cuffs discarded, charging onward. The narrow space would take him to adjoining subterranean routes. He could travel certain directions to scavenge incidentals, from families who wouldn’t miss them. But first, he needed to make a crucial stop.

Martin reached his war room, what he considered his ready chambers. The space was a shoe box, ideal for concealment of emergency supplies, to be utilized in the all too inevitable occurrence when Martin’s proclivities became public knowledge. Martin retrieved light rods and bent them into luminescence. He had duct taped a reflective sheet of metal and he used saline water for a trim and a shave. 

He went with a thick mustache. The rest of his barbering kit had gone to rust. The cash was in good shape, would pay for a stylist who kept their mouth shut if they got too close a look at him. But most importantly, most of all, Martin’s fingers waggled in anticipation before he cracked open a portable leather case.

Martin caressed the syringe he had purchased from a chemistry TA, sourced from antiquated stocks of an apothecary long closed for business. His favored instrument, not a smidge of odious low grade industrial materials to tamper with his formula, though some discoloration of the glass was to be expected. 

He exchanged his correctional uniform for his plaid long sleeve, stiff jeans, and good ol' hiker boots. With his pocketful of poison and a bland but warm sweater, Martin Whitly left the barber’s closer to nirvana, a cut above the rest, as he smiled genially at the smashing pumpkins still flickering from a fire inside and eggs rancid over easy and toilet paper streaming like a black flag in sublime winds fanning out the germs of bad religion. These rambunctious jests were a simple plan by the vandals, misfits, and the offspring of social distortion, but Martin had better tricks to play in the spirit of All Hallow’s Eve.

Martin was going to have such marvelous fun in pursuit of happy trails, game to chase, and a bit of time to kill. Because he already knew where he would find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for prodigal_kink meme prompt: MPREG Malcolm. Martin delivers the baby.
> 
> Thanks to batonblue for suggesting plastic explosives for team to find Malcolm under the house!! The chapter one tunnel scene improved with their invaluable feedback.


	2. Your sins into me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (cold in life's throes) i'll fall asleep for you
> 
> -afi

Watkins led him to another passageway run through with pipes, valves, bracers, endless metal dividers. They wended in darkness for an interminable stretch, easily miles and miles. John hogged the lantern but let him have water. Soon, Watkins brought him to a walkway on a raised platform. Malcolm looked around for markers or painted stop names to track their whereabouts in relation to his city. 

John tossed the canvas tote down to the train tracks and hopped down, raising his arms when Malcolm sat on the platform edge to shimmy onto the track area. Malcolm’s side throbbed from John’s mark. John set the lantern on the platform to assist Malcolm. He let Malcolm hang on as they negotiated the tracks. Malcolm’s heat continued to prickle but it receded into a mean thirst. 

John brought him to a rough shod lorry improvised from a pair of axles, bands of rubber, a couple small motors, and a pallet covered with the same black matting in the hidey hole beneath the Whitly basement. Steel wheels mounted the abandoned rails.

Malcolm estimated the distance between the steel columns and kept a count in his head. The lorry traveled at a velocity of roughly 40 kilometers per hour.

Malcolm covered himself, chilled to his bones without a shirt. John let him wear his hoodie. 

“Rest. Your trials are ahead,” said John. He kept warm by seating himself above the heat generated by the motors.

A decommissioned train car awaited Malcolm like an overblown industrial cage. John had a rubber full sized mattress tucked inside.

“Stay here. I’ll get bedding for you. Maybe books. Wasn’t expecting a mate,” said John.

Malcolm sent John a fierce side eye expression that promised retaliation.

“We’re not married. I won’t lay a hand on you. Did the bite work?” John asked.

“Bite,” Malcolm repeated.

“Biting makes the heat stop. My grandpa told me that’s what he did for my grandma when they were tempted. They were going to get married. Like we are,” explained John.

“How would we be married? You’re wanted for serial murders and you’ve kidnapped me. My mother wouldn’t approve of the match.”

“She’ll change her mind when we give her grand babies,” said John.

‘Shit, she might,’ spoke Malcolm’s paranoia. His mother had married a serial killer, had given money to a mysterious beauty who had crashed her luncheon, and slept on a murder hotline corded in her own house.

“We’re not having babies,” said Malcolm.

“We will. First I will court you and get you in the faith. Do you believe that Jesus is Lord?” asked John.

“You’re going to convert me,” Malcolm said.

“I intend us to be equally yoked. A believer hitched to a non-believer? No, I’m going to teach you Scripture first. It will purify your heart and cleanse your mind. Then I will call on the Lord to drive the demons from you. Once you’ve been exorcised, you’ll be an acceptable bride.”

“What about you? Isn’t pride a sin?” retorted Malcolm.

“Oh, me? I’ll submit myself to the spirit and let God shape me as your husband. Worthy to father our children.”

John removed the chains on Malcolm’s hands.

“Stay here until I come for you. You can run but you’re taking an awful big risk of staying lost and then maybe the rats will find you.”

Besides the full sized mattress clogging the standing area for passengers to exit, there were a couple cafe tables with upholstered seating. The wood poles were stripped in the middle where hands touched most often, the gilded metal which protected structural joints oxidized to flaky protrusions. The rotted carpeting would likely give Malcolm damp lungs.

When John did return to make Malcolm’s steel cage more homey, the new chapter of Malcolm’s life began with the Book of John.

* * *

John left him in pitch black. Malcolm passed out from exhaustion while sitting on the cushioned seating. He didn’t want to be caught lying prone and positioned himself like he would for an all night stakeout. He eventually slid on the rubber mattress and sprawled onto the mildewed carpet flattened by many shoes.

His jaw felt bruised. He had landed on his left side where the mark pained him. His fall ignited the pain. Malcolm was curled up on the floor of the train car sobbing and cradling his injury when John returned with an electrically powered lamp and a kettle. He had bags of fresh produce. Malcolm waited for John to sip before he drank down his own hot lemon water, bundled in a stuffed coverlet. 

John made him read Scripture. He closed the Bible once when Malcolm wasn’t paying attention and whacked Malcolm across his cheek, cut his brow, blooded the leather cover.

“Pay attention. This about your heart and soul. If you’re not inside Jesus, I can’t marry you. Our union won’t be blessed.”

John put them on a fast of water and vegetables.

Every muscle in Malcolm’s body ached. The black hole of depression yawned within him though John filled him with God’s word. He knew his right hand trembled but he couldn’t feel the blanket, couldn’t feel himself wherever he put his numbed hand. At times, John reading him verses hurt his ears and increased the intensity of his headaches until he threw up boiled vegetables.

Within his educated mindset, Malcolm passively observed withdrawal symptoms from skipping Ativan. His mind registered the causes of why he suffered but from his heart, Malcolm cried out for oblivion. He begged for John to bury him before the black hole inside him swallowed him up.

In darkness, Malcolm could see the black hole coming for him. Apparitions spoke and terrible sayings escaped the black hole like electrons from ultra dense points of singularity in deep space. He saw a hand floating in the black, numbering his time with John, writing the names of who his father killed.

Malcolm stopped talking when the dead re-animated. He saw them dutifully marching to a tunnel, towards a light denied to Malcolm. He was too scared to tell John about them. Nothing made him more anxious than opening his mouth and the dead turning their black hole eyes to his unsaved soul.

Then one day he saw his family, Mother, Ainsley, Father, Louisa. He called to his family and stinking blue flames surrounding Malcolm, burning away his fragile mortality until he couldn’t feel his feet or hands, elbows or knees, heart or face. The inferno devoured each piece of him that raised up in defiance.

At times, he stepped outside of his physical form and observed John chaining him to anchoring structures within the train car. Wrapping Malcolm’s hands and feet. John lying on him, flattened out, shouting for Jesus and the spirit to save Malcolm. The clinical aspect of Malcolm’s conscious mind self-diagnosed Malcolm with seizures. He hoped that a Grand Mal would wipe him before sending him to the other side of the blue flames, burning away his life, deadening his cells from unceasing and ongoing agony.

Malcolm awakened to a foul smell of sickness and of bile and of waste. He couldn’t move, disappointed from life rushing into him. John was with him. He picked up Malcolm though he appeared half dead in his boots.

“Praise God. He brought you back.”

Malcolm had dirtied the bedding, his skin rashy and irritated. He was naked, out from his cocoon of filth.

John covered him in a bed sheet that smelled like dryer sheets. John pulled nitrile gloves from a nearly empty box and used the blanket to swab Malcolm’s excreted wastes.

John then brought in a bucket reeking of bleach. He used rags to wipe down and disinfect the rubber mattress. He dropped the rag to the floor and wiped wherever else human waste would’ve collected, lifted the mattress, and bleached the bottom as well. Malcolm gagged from the olfactory potency of bleach nuking his nostrils but more importantly, also killing anaerobic pathogens.

Bed cleaned, John turned his energies to Malcolm, supporting him to outside of the train car. There was a barrel of cold water covered by a fine metal screen that was more like a sieve. Malcolm stood barefoot near the inlaid bars of a drain. John shined a light at his feet to avoid rusted scraps.

The cold water helped once Malcolm adjusted. It felt good to move without filth caked on his skin. After shivering convulsively for several minutes, John wrapped the same sheet around him, still gloved to dab away the droplets on Malcolm’s skin. Malcolm also rinsed his mouth, spitting water from his cracked lips.

Malcolm sat on the upholstered chair wrapped in a slightly soiled bed sheet. John was beside him.

“What did you use to keep me from biting my tongue or breaking my teeth?” asked Malcolm. He held a mug of warm water. Drinking in heat was such a pleasure despite the absence of flavor.

“Sock. Long johns. Tied it,” said John. He put his head back on the cushion and dozed off beside Malcolm.

With John out cold, Malcolm should have taken his chance to flee. But he was too weak to crouch around John. He had no clean clothes. His feet were gritty without shoes. He definitely hadn’t eaten for days, breaking his own personal record of mental illness induced starvation.

John had more answers for him later.

“I was reading to you when the devil attacked you. I called on the spirit to cast out Lucifer. He would not give you up easily.” 

John seemed almost cheerful. “You should be dead but God snatched you from the grave.”

“I’m off my medications. God didn’t save me from you,” said Malcolm.

“You just don’t see it yet. You’re blind like how I was blind.”

John brought him more books. One of them was a hymnal.

“Will you sing? I can teach you how it goes,” John said.

“Where did you get all these items that weren’t here before?” Malcolm asked.

“Sing one number. I’ll tell you after,” said John.

Malcolm did his best with lyrics and what John hummed to him. For a moment, his sorrows lifted as he filled the darkness with song.

“I knew God gave you a gift. You sing like a bird.” John stared at him so. “I can hear the angels when you go on like that.”

“Your turn,” Malcolm said, gulping as he tucked back his disastrous hair.

“All this stuff I took from your family’s basement and your neighbor’s basement. Your house isn’t the only one with secrets.”

John made him sing once a day and surprised Malcolm with a dusty ukulele.

“You music types are usually good with playing and singing. Keep your hands busy.”

While John was away scrounging for food or supplies, Malcolm strummed for himself. He wouldn’t give John the satisfaction of knowing how much he enjoyed playing like crap and singing over badly tuned strings. 

John kept him on veggies and bouillon cubes smashed into tepid water. And more New Testament. 

“Do you accept Jesus? Can you forgive people who let you down. Can you forgive me for taking you.”

“Will you let me go if I said sure??” Malcolm requested.

John made him re-read the salvation verses.

After a few days of despondently wiping tears from his cheeks, Malcolm wasn’t even sobbing or crying. The black hole re-spawned, closing over him like a cold ocean. He saw many commonplace items he could have used to kill himself but he couldn’t feel his fingers. His knowledge of clumsy suicides prevented excruciatingly unsuccessful attempts. He was paranoid that if he cut himself, no blood would come out, but darkness that would stain his skin for everyone to see.

John wrapped him in his blanket and held him and patted his hair, reading him Psalms.

“This is what my grandmother used to do for me when she could see. About the only times she had nice things to say.” John kissed his cheeks and tucked him into bed.

An image flashed through Malcolm’s brain, of John opening his blanket and pressing the scar to his mark.

Malcolm rolled over some time later, feeling normal. He was direly fucked up and kidnapped, but he felt like hearing music and stretching for the journey ahead. An old Johnny Nash hit song came to mind. He hummed the chorus in between deep breaths and strengthening poses. As he unwound, Malcolm cobbled together a plan: Accept salvation. Earn John’s trust. Hit John with axe and run.

Simple plans were most often the most daunting.

He was going to time it closer to the onset of his next heat. John hadn’t used the alpha voice to command him, not since marking him. If Malcolm could hit him with an axe and run for it, the alpha voice wouldn’t affect Malcolm. However, Malcolm needed John to take him along whenever John stole into people’s basements.

Malcolm was very considerate in his approach to professing Jesus God as his Savior. After John closed the hymnal book for Malcolm’s daily practice, Malcolm turned to him with soulful eyes.

“When did you decide to follow Jesus?” He bit his cheeks before the whole “serial killer” spiel tipped out of his throat like a wheel barrel full of bricks.

“It was after my grandfather died. I prayed the Lord to stop me and my grandmother from being homeless. Martin Whitly and I run into each other at a bar. After he heard me whining, he gave me a check and told me I could pay back any time. Grandmom’s home is paid off. God did his part. So I do mine. Reaping evil.”

A tear dripped from Malcolm’s cheek.

“Your father had been watching me for awhile. He was planning to kill me the first time he invited me to his place for tea and sandwiches. But he changed his mind. God uses evil for good.”

Malcolm waited before initiating his plan.

“I’m ready to accept God.”

John’s teeth bared suddenly, his brows snapping back, ears raising.

“You accept in your heart and confess with your mouth that Jesus is your savior?”

“Yes.” If it meant his salvation and deliverance from John.

“Praise be. Let’s pray for your soul to go to heaven and God to bless your earthly days.” John bowed his head and prayed aloud for Malcolm. Then John led him to the barrel drum filled with water.

“You’re baptized in the spirit. Once you do water baptism, you’re ready.” John was excited.

“What am I ready for?” said Malcolm.

“I’ll take you to church and we make our promises to one another before God,” said John.

“Marriage? We won’t have any witnesses or an ordained officiant,” Malcolm disagreed.

“God as our witness, we’ll be married. Then I can take you upstairs with me, as my help mate.”

Malcolm had lied for much less to clear a case and no entity would honor John’s made up standards of lawful marriage.

“Sounds right. Do I go in the dunk tank now?”

“Let your yes be a yes and your no be a no,” said John. Though John spoke calmly, Malcolm heard the challenge.

“You got a towel?” he asked.

Malcolm went all in, into black waters, head to toe.

John gave him a protein bar with berries and yogurt. Shivering under blankets and sheets, Malcolm gamely imbibed Calories, fueling himself for the trials ahead of him. John chained him down for sleep. Malcolm awoke with his arms covering his middle, startled by the concave dip of his abdomen. As his vision adjusted, he thought he saw a man in an oatmeal sweater and bleached whites uniform holding his chains.

“You’re my boy. Up and at ‘em,” said Martin.

Malcolm turned his face when John entered the train car.

“Today you and I will be made one. What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. Your thoughts should be known to me and mine to yours,” declared John.

“OK, let’s do this,” Malcolm said.

John blocked the exit of the train car.

“One day, you will conceive our child. As your alpha, I intend to put a roof over your head and clothe you and fill you with good things.”

“If you’re wondering whether or not my mother would approve of you, she would not.”

John smiled. “Never figured you to be a momma’s boy.”

“I’m not.” Malcolm was aware that his daddy issues trumped the helicopter mom stuck on hover any day of the week.

“Good. The opinions of mothers ain’t squat.”

An antennae twanged from Malcolm’s skull, registering key data.

“But I do wanna know. If we lived in a house, what color would you want the outside? I plan to do all the work, you just tell me what would please you.”

Malcolm saw how John’s arm blocked the door and how he stood taller. John wouldn’t let him go anywhere if Malcolm didn’t humor him.

“I like red bricks. Solid colors are a little picture book to me.”

“Sure beats baby blue.” John stepped aside. “After you.”

He equipped Malcolm with his own lantern, making their shared trip easier to navigate with additional lighting. They rode the jury-rigged lorry. Malcolm’s legs itched from the vibration of the motors. He knelt because it was making his crotch tingle. His next heat was approaching. Malcolm was cutting it close but he would be surface level before it hit.

He craved sweets and cake, which meant he had two to three days before his basal temperature raised and his secretory glands lubricated his omega genitalia. Malcolm wore the same pants from the day of his kidnapping. They were unfit for public appearance. His shirt was over sized but clean and white. His dress shoes pinched from the thick white socks that John had given him. 

Malcolm ditched the stolen bulky winter coat he usually wore, leaving it in the train car because he would be roasted alive with the impending heat. John adamantly kept to his hoodie and winter cap.

Malcolm kept a lookout as John steered the makeshift lorry where the tracks split off and diverged. Every time they needed to go left or right, John used a lengthy and medium thick piece of lumber to slow the lorry after shutting down the motors. Then John showed Malcolm how to break down the lorry. He lifted the black mats and the wood pallet. John then transferred the axles with the steel wheels onto the desired rail tracks. The wood pallet, the mats, and supplies were replaced upon assembly.

Then John would engage the motors and again they were off. Malcolm observed and cataloged letters and numbers painted on slates or chalked on steel columns, deciphering if the letters indicated a direction or the city district they were below. The numbers either indicated coordinates or grid units plotted by the transportation company which constructed the sub-level routes.

His fingernail scratched letters into the lorry’s mat, by their order of appearance. He improvised oddly memorable pass phrases in his head to recall the letters in sequence.

Once they were above ground, Malcolm could establish cardinal directions and mentally overlay letter placements to navigate his escape from John.

John’s idea of what he called church, to Malcolm’s dismay, was an abandoned platform with brick archways festooned with limestone carved into baby cherubs. John leapt onto the platform from the tracks. He grabbed the back of Malcolm’s white shirt and his belt, hauling Malcolm into the next bizarre misadventure. Up the beige stone steps was a stone backed fountain of a young woman raising her naked infant to heaven.

The stonework behind the young woman was tiled with glazed hyper pigmented ceramic arranged to resemble three angels in the sky. John had set up his emergency standing light, shining the whole works like stained glass windows.

Malcolm somberly processed his surroundings, John’s hand prints smudged on his whites.

“I take you, Malcolm Whitly, as my spouse, to have and to hold, for better, for worse, in sickness and health, for richer and poorer, til death do us part.” 

John extended his hand, his black eyes expectant.

“Under God’s holy law. This my solemn vow. From this day forward.”

Malcolm placed the edge of his palm on John’s faded sleeve, avoiding skin to skin contact. John’s touch enclosed his wrist. Malcolm parroted John’s words through John had spoken them out of order. And John had either forgotten to say “to love and to cherish” or he purposefully omitted them.

John’s fingers curled around his neck, thumbs stroking down his throat.

Rather than give John the opportunity to use his alpha voice, Malcolm kissed him first. The stubble of Malcolm’s chin caught some of John’s beard hairs. Perhaps due to his omega nature, Malcolm could never manage a beard himself. The stubble came in and that was that.

“Boy, oh boy, I caught me a pretty one,” John said. He smelled like he had showered.

Malcolm shivered in revulsion. “Thanks. Can we go back now?”

Malcolm hoped that he would be a free man this day and drown himself in a candied bath bomb sprinkled with barbiturates, washing himself of this unholy period of captivity.

“Sure thing. I’ve got a treat for you,” John enthused. He crooked his elbow around Malcolm’s limp arm, in a wedding march to the lorry.

John planted his feet on the flat wood boards in-between the metal rails and raised his arms. When Malcolm crouched lower, John picked him up and whirled him around once. Malcolm clutched John’s shoulders when he regained his footing. Malcolm clambered onto the black mat of the lorry.

John revved up the motors and used the wood lumber to push off in the direction from where they had come. Malcolm mentally reviewed his pass phrases to double check his memory of the lorry’s route.

Malcolm held himself, shuddering with the chilled air rushing past. He was beginning to feel the unquenchable thirst and his deep muscles reacting excitedly to the motors going and going. John removed his hoodie, revealing the blue-gray button up he wore. John cloaked Malcolm and put an arm around Malcolm, who tensed when John’s hand settled over his left side, where he was marked.

“Shh, shh. You’re safe. Why force myself on you when I know what’s coming?”

“Wouldn’t you have more fun if you killed me first?” Malcolm said.

“Marriage isn’t about doing what you want. At any time, I can wring your neck. The point is for me not to.”

“I’m not your first mate, am I?”

At John’s silence, Malcolm scrunched away and John let him.

“You’re not some hooker off the streets. I married up.”

“I’m not exactly your virgin bride either. In fact, I’ve given it away like candy. I’ve been passed around at parties. Threesomes, orgies, I’ve even ridden a man train.”

“You ever been raped?”

“Happens,” Malcolm said. No point in denying it. “The gist of this convo is that I’m not your type.”

“You’ll learn. In the fullness of time, you’ll love me.” John patted his knee; his word final.

John treated him to cooked food bagged in Styrofoam boxes. John said grace and blessed their meal. After water and boiled veggies, Malcolm ate with the appetite of a young man that wanted to live.

His stomach filled up quickly. Clutching his side, Malcolm ended his meal abruptly though food was warm, reheated on a portable stove with canned fuel.

John passed him the hymnal book. Malcolm had to sit up straighter to finish. He was drowsy and anything John said to him didn’t quite penetrate the cotton stuffed into his ear. His limbs relaxed. John stroked the backs of Malcolm’s hands before cuffing him in chains. John lied on top of him, heavy as a gray lump of iron, before Malcolm’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Whispers tugged at Malcolm’s ears. He could hear a man calling to him.

“Where are you, Bright?!”

The whispers filled his cage like water in a tank. His mattress floated in troubled waters, like a rail cart trundling into a lake of fire. Malcolm couldn’t jump off because of the chains. His mattress slid away from him and the chains took all of Malcolm’s weight as he dangled, in pitch black, boiled alive, screaming over the whispers of damned souls.

Malcolm whimpered in the train car. The cuffs cut into his wrists from his violent convulsions. His chest heaved as though he were crying though no tears cooled his hot face. An inferno burned away his resolve, leaving his dreams of escape in a smoking pit of ashes.

John found him stewing in slick that went down to the backs of his knees. Malcolm thought he heard John cussing up a storm or maybe he was hollering out the demon busting Scripture.

“Water. Please,” Malcolm croaked through his scorched mouth.

“Damn. Should have rushed back sooner. Poor thing,” said John.

John detached the chains from their impromptu anchors but kept them on Malcolm. John shouldered him like a sack of hot potatoes.

“Hold on. I’ve got everything ready. It’ll be perfect, you’ll see.”

John gave him water from a re-usable purple tumbler that Malcolm hadn’t seen before. Malcolm slurped half the contents before he noticed the grit on his tongue. He spat it out but oblivion claimed him anyway. The air buffeting his face on the lorry kept him awake up until his head pillowed on John’s lap.

Malcolm was awakened by the encompassing sensation of being dipped into an ice bath. He screamed, every part of him needled from inescapable torture. Goosebumps everywhere, Malcolm’s chilled hands covered his feverish brow.

“The lights. Lights,” Malcolm sobbed, blinded by the intensity of the watt bulbs inside of a clean and well-lit bathroom. Pink, yellow, and green auras haloed the light fixtures.

John turned the dial adjacent to the light switch; the lights dimmed.

“Sorry. Not thinking straight. I had a hell of a time getting us here.”

“You drugged me!” Malcolm howled. He splashed water spitefully all over John’s shoes.

“Easy, easy. I did it for you. Trust me, the way I set it up is better,” John cajoled.

“Do I need to command you?” John asked.

Malcolm shook his sopping wet head, teeth chattering. He hugged his knees, rubbed his chin into his legs. More water splashed in his agitation, hands on his shaved face.

“Did you—?”

“I cleaned you up. If you want, you can brush your teeth. There’s a little mouthwash. You can dry off with the fluffiest towel I found.”

“Can you leave,” Malcolm stated.

“Suit yourself. I’ll get you more water. Not the sleepy water,” John said when Malcolm stared coldly.

Malcolm washed his mouth. He made a face in the vanity mirror, hating how he looked like a rookie without his chin hairs. His aroused genitals pressed the edge of the sink and he was grinding into the cool surface before his rational mind caught up, reminding him to try the door with John out of sight.

The knob turned but the hinges wouldn’t cooperate. He didn’t see a window but there was a thin wood board hammered over one of the bathroom walls near the toilet.

Malcolm used the toilet, strangely comforted when he flushed. He had missed scented hand soap. But he couldn’t appreciate it because John had barricaded the window and the bathroom door.

John had drilled the wood board into the wall. Malcolm cursed. He would’ve sacrificed his nail beds but the wood board was too thin for him to leverage without a crowbar.

John knocked twice.

He had nothing. Malcolm would’ve been happy with a candle or hair dryer or even a can of cheap hair spray but the bathroom contained only a toothbrush, a disposable cup for rinsing, and a mini bottle of mouthwash. He couldn’t exactly weaponize toilet paper either.

Malcolm felt like a juvenile but he secured the towel around his underarms, not allowing even a glimpse of his bare chest. John didn’t attempt to enter the bathroom.

“Wear these,” John said. He had clothes for Malcolm.

“This is in women's!” Malcolm protested, a white nightgown bunched in his fists.

“Fine. Then come out here as is.”

Malcolm wasn’t going to escape in a drippy towel. He resignedly tugged on the nightgown. Aside from the white flowery stitching on its front, it felt rather soft and nice. The sleeves were long with ruffles that warmed his palms, calling to mind the 17th century French chemise. Malcolm’s heart sank lower than the knee length hemline as he integrated the garment chosen for him into John’s evolving profile, reading the sinister folds of John’s brain in the prim and virginal gown.

He would’ve preferred it if John had thrown lingerie in his face.

John was also in pajamas; he wore faded striped bottoms and a gray T-shirt. He leaned against the hallway wall.

“Where are we?” Malcolm asked.

Malcolm observed the diamond paisley wallpaper, the table with potted flowers, the royal blue runners carpeting the long floor. The pristine condition of the passageway was pretty much showroom ready. Each mounted light fixture gleamed, its light shade dusted to gentle radiance. The few leaves on the hallway table indicated the fresh condition of genuine flowers ornately bouquet-ed in a vase crafted by a master but glazed by a student. 

“We’re in a fancy house. No one to bother us,” said John. He approached Malcolm, perched his arms almost reverently at the middle of Malcolm’s back.

“God, you smell good.” John pressed firmly into the nightgown.

“What about the family that lives here?” Malcolm’s eyes were bloodshot, brimming with knowledge.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” John said. His smile was propped up by grim certainty.

Malcolm ran for it, throwing open every bedroom door with John’s laugh chasing him down. Each room was dark from the curtains drawn closed and boarded up. Malcolm tripped down the stairs, sliding down the banister in his haste.

He skidded past the wooden and frosted pane entrance door, also barred shut. John had drilled lengths of metal. From the living room, Malcolm dashed into the dining area. One of the wood chairs laid on its side, one leg missing. The dining table was completely bare. For a family that had flowers in the hallway, that didn’t line up with Malcolm’s visuals of the house. Unwashed pots on the stove tap and dishes piled over the counter were also a terrible sign.

Malcolm’s scrutiny targeted a door cracked open but just. He crept past the cabinets and appliances. The door squealed as it gave way to mounted shelving replete with rice, pasta, cereal jarred sauces, and sundry in bulk quantities. The small landing was too dark for safe admittance which stopped him not at all.

Malcolm grabbed the chain overhead, grateful it wasn’t a spiderweb, and tugged. His bare feet plodded in his descent. The back of his hand went to his mouth and he bit down, shoulders heaving.

A smell like raw beef left out for a day filled the area. He knew before he saw them, his mind piecing together horrors. If he closed his eyes, he was in his father’s workshop. Moments of his life, his family, Gil, Jackie, teachers, tutors, doctors, so many counselors, classmates who knew, acquaintances who didn’t know, played out like a movie reel with feelings bled out, bled out like the anonymous figures who Watkins annihilated while Malcolm slept.

He could see Watkins surprising them at dinner, stupefied by the weight of a homey meal and cozy boredom of table conversation. Watkins grabbed the child, held the splintered stake of a chair leg, dragging the child like a bogeyman and of course they would follow their abducted child into the basement, to their end. Watkins strangled the child to unconsciousness. Used the wood chair leg to stun one parent. The other parent had gone for their child while Watkins stabbed away the parent mounting an offense. The protective parent took multiple wounds in the back protecting their child, buying time prior to Watkins taking the child and— it was fast. Thank God, quick.

Their corpses were moved towards a built-in drain minimizing the spread of gore. Malcolm peeked in the laundry sinks, saw where the blood crusted into an outline once the water from Watkins cleaning his knife drained.

Malcolm limped upstairs, head spinning until he collapsed, caught himself on the bare dining room table. He moaned as he bent over, palming himself through a dead woman’s clothes. His slick smeared the table; the time he had left burned away in his heat.

John intercepted him before he could duck into the downstairs bathroom. He hauled Malcolm over his shoulders and grunted when Malcolm’s punches landed, carrying off his bride to the master bedroom.

“Why?” screamed Malcolm. “Why them? You could have fucked me after drugging me! Why here?!”

John threw him onto the bed. With the drapes shut and boarded over, the only source of light was one bedside lamp. Out of habit, John locked them in.

“You picked this place. I found your house. I know you like it. Gorgeous exterior. Red brick.”

Malcolm settled as the consequences of his own words ground him into a black hole.

John pulled the blankets on top of Malcolm before getting into bed. He turned off the lamp and rolled over. He kept his pajamas, pulling his engorged cock through the unbuttoned opening in the flannel pants.

“NO! No! Not after what you’ve done!” Malcolm’s nails raked John’s arm. His knuckled fists struck John’s chest and his squishy middle.

**“Lie down. Shut your mouth.”**

John smelled more of Malcolm as he pulled up the cotton nightie, his enjoyment heightened than if he’d found the freshest corpse to taste. Clean and gentle cloth that gave hints of lavender, reminded John of sleeping close to his grandmother. John’s large fingers bunched into sweet cotton as he thrust his cock through cotton as fluffy as clouds right into heaven, between Malcolm’s legs which were pale like ivory gates.

“Pussy. Lord,” John said. He couldn’t stop his mouth.

Malcolm wouldn’t kiss back but John was used to getting no reaction. His lips pressed Malcolm’s petal soft cheeks, thick and warm hair. John moved the cotton over Malcolm’s cock. He didn’t want to mess with that sort of thing. John only craved a black hole that wanted him to fall in, over and over. He would kill to feel this way, and he did.

John stared because he could see all of them.

“You whores drive me crazy.”

Nothing felt better than missionary in the dark, safely covered where he could claim them without having to show his face, his doughy stomach, his smile that rubbed folks wrong at times.

John didn’t have to put up with the look of hatred, rejection, contempt in those pretty eyes. What mattered to John was the body and what he needed from it, why he kept going deep into honest pussy, inside a tunnel with bliss at the end of it.

Whatever Malcolm felt about him, he was screaming for John’s knot. Slick soaked John’s pajamas as they locked together, Malcolm’s whore muscles holding him, loving him, getting him off for filling gushes, completely greedy for warm milk from hot meat.

John moaned into the pillow, pussy telling him, “Take yours. Own me. Yes fuck in. Baby me alpha.”

Malcolm sounded like he never had his pussy owned as though he were surprised that John could thoroughly take him. John fell onto Malcolm’s whore mouth, remembering their earlier conversation, Malcolm’s confession of sin. Malcolm’s true nature made John impossibly hard. He was picturing Malcolm giving it away like candy instead of selling it. Pussy giving. Pussy give him fuck. Get baby. Hurt pussy like. 

John snarled and pussy liked that, too. He just wanted to pry it open with his knot and fatten the skinny little with milk. Milk thick and rich as the cock it came from.

When Malcolm came, his orgasm took him out of his mind and into his pussy which immediately betrayed the nobler yearnings of his heart. He was given over to John, for John’s cock inside him, to a thief inside the temple of his body, raping him into the next coming of rapture.

Malcolm had fucked in many bedrooms, a few dungeons, strapped to customized medical equipment, motorized thrusting apparatuses, with rooms of comely, fit, firm, lush people. Yet he had chased these hedonistic experiences on a regimen of suppressants.

Without suppressants, a sweaty fuck with clothes and blankets with no lights became an unfairly transformational and transcendental ride that took him underground, marooned him in subspace, and fuck his next climax was burying him under a man he hated. Worse than lying in a pit was John climbing in with him.

John smooched his damp hair before going slack. If Malcolm had more night terrors, he was knotted down, too fucked to run. Whether it took John’s knot thirty or forty five minutes to recede, each minute dragged when neither partners feigned any personal liking.

Malcolm was grateful not to have to look. Or worse, for John to see what he destroyed.

When John finally rolled off of him, Malcolm still couldn’t move. He twinged when he closed his legs, wondering what sawed off bits of himself he would have to re-construct and learn all over again. Maybe the pieces of him remaining were glued stuck by the filth that coated him.

Malcolm’s lower stomach already felt rounder, swelled plenty with seed. It would leak out of him and spread if Malcolm got up. He covered his face when John swatted at the lamp, which winked on.

Malcolm pulled the blankets over himself but he needn’t have bothered. John tucked himself in.

“I’ll make eggs. There’s fruit too.” 

John’s movements revealed the stiffened and crusted state of his pajamas, creased where he had soaked up Malcolm’s pleasure. With John gone, the door mercifully shutting behind him, Malcolm lifted the blankets, saw the blood on the nightie, touched between the raw skin and the split gummy tissue that didn’t feel like his own. Because it wasn’t. John had him, shot his ropes into Malcolm and knotted him up inside. His mind and his heart were anchored to pounds of flesh claimed by John, trapped in a red brick shell of a home that once was beautiful inside.

Their fucking intensified when Malcolm’s body metabolized the roofie which John used on him. Malcolm relaxed when he ate grapes over the kitchen sink. The marvelous burst of sweet on his sour tongue had him moaning and presenting himself, his cunt dumping fresh slick. Malcolm crossed his legs and twisted the hem of the nightgown to hide it.

John grabbed Malcolm’s hair and took him in the nearest bedroom which belonged to the murdered child. John shoved him onto the twin bed, smarting Malcolm’s knees. With the window boarded over and the door slammed closed, only the happy star night light illuminated their rutting. John dropped trou, raping him before the flannel waistband looped John’s socked feet. 

Without the drugs relaxing him, Malcolm was keenly attuned to the sensual glide of cock catching on erogenous areas made recessive by suppressants. He knew the vein throbbing John’s pulse, hardness cutting heat, forcing life into womb.

John would only stroke him through the dirty nightgown. John’s palms pressed over the cotton stretched along Malcolm’s parted thighs. John’s groin heated the soiled clothes, roasted Malcolm’s ass into a damp sweat. Once more John’s knot swelled, scraping painfully, too sharp on a flesh wound to wipe Malcolm blank from sensation. 

Malcolm submitted to thick pulsating girth and unyielding length invading his innermost holy of holies but he couldn’t release when it felt like John was fucking a knife handle into him and jamming the corner of the blade into the thin wall between his pussy and his anus.

He wanted it over. Malcolm stroked his neglected prick but his single hand couldn’t support his weight beneath John’s thrusting. Malcolm’s arm bent and he fell forward with John plowing him too rough. Malcolm jerked himself despite John knocking the wind from him. John fell onto his back. Malcolm jizzed into the nightgown, onto the sheets of a child’s bed, climaxing around John’s cock.

Malcolm stroked the bedding, weeping for a lost family. John braced his leg over Malcolm’s bare shins, his murderous hands palming the lacy front of the nightgown, rubbing Malcolm’s chest pounding from one heart beating itself erratically.

“Hey, hey. Sing for me. Any of the hymns that I taught you. It’ll work.” John’s beard prickled at his ears, bristly on Malcolm’s hot neck.

Malcolm sang, low and deep, raw and sweet in a room that smelled like fuck. His song was for the innocent who deserved more than what fate meted them.

John gripped him more tightly, reacting to the pleasing measure of Malcolm’s voice while he was hooked into Malcolm, pouring cum into pussy that felt prettier when it sang. John’s hand cupped his face, turned his cheek, claimed an earnest kiss.

“Angel voice, whore lips. God damn,” John moaned.

Because they had married and mated on Valentine’s Day, John used the long weekend for knotting Malcolm undisturbed all the way to Presidents’ Day. He had immaculately set it up.

Malcolm’s heat lasted a few days instead of the so-called normal cycle of one week. Unfortunately, the short duration of Malcolm’s first cycle with John was a sure but dreaded sign of conception.

John appeared pleased whenever he caught Malcolm touching his belly. 

John trimmed his beard and plucked out the whites. At John’s insistence, Malcolm went Clairol blond, from the vanity room which joined the master bedroom to the private bathroom. With a more attention grabbing hair color, Malcolm tweezed his brows. He found a bulk packet of unused manual epilators, taking one to thin out his brow arch. 

Aware that his extra care over his appearance indicated some serious hormonal fluctuations, Malcolm couldn’t stop grooming himself to be as attractive as possible.

John encouraged the primping. “Grow your hair longer. I don’t like the stubble on your pretty face.”

John also picked clothes for him to take, which meant long skirts, modest blouses, plain walking shoes that weren’t nearly as nice as his wingtips. Malcolm was compelled to add a purse because his new clothes had no pockets or flaunted pockets that made zero promises to hold your shit.

Malcolm could tolerate the hair color, the shaving, the cross dressing. NYPD were on the lookout for a brunette male heir to the Whitly trust fund. A disguise meant John would allow them to walk the avenues like any alpha omega couple. As Malcolm’s pregnancy came to term, his face would appear more effeminate with weight gain and fluid retention.

But the worst thing John did to him was to slip a corpse’s golden ring on his finger and command him: “ **Don’t leave me**.”

Loaded with a few thousand dollars of blood money, John took his omega out for hot chocolate around Central Park. They strolled by a New York Direct news van which zipped away when reporter Ainsley Whitly and her team received the tragic update of a family slain on Valentine’s Day weekend in their own home in the Landmark District, slashing the run time for the memorial segment of Parkland to 15 seconds.

* * *

Malcolm was in an Asian grocer’s restocking on everything ginger when the odor wafting from iced shellfish had him belching into his fist.

“I’m sorry sorry,” he apologized in Mandarin to the apathetic teenager wiping the linoleum.

His voice raised in pitch sounded more like a woman.

“It’s cool, blondie. You didn’t get sick in the ice box.” The teen inserted their Airpods and resumed cleaning.

Malcolm paid for his ginger chews, dried crystallized ginger, ginger tea, and Russian branded crackers. He left a fiver in the tip jar.

John awaited him in the rainy spring, holding an umbrella and a red plastic bag packed with steamed soy garlic chicken feet and pickled papaya salad. Malcolm was in the middle of a first trimester which meant he wasn’t showing. His cravings had yet to ease up. Items which he distantly acknowledged as edibles from a food group became diet staples. All his veggies were either pickled or roasted in heaps of garlic. Malcolm ate so much poultry, he was surprised he didn’t sprout a beak; and disappointed that he couldn't fly from John’s grasp and build a nest.

John was spoiling him. Malcolm had behaved at church for Easter service and had not attempted to jump into a taxi, such as what happened in March during the confusion of March madness event crowds. The taxi hadn’t crawled 10 feet before Malcolm yanked the door and hauled out, his left side splitting from John’s mark under his dress. The pain wouldn’t relent until Malcolm ran to John and fainted into his touch. His body was physiologically tied to John.

Without therapy or his anti-depressants, Malcolm had been too depressed to care about the side effects of disobeying John’s commandment to never leave. The jolt through his body fired off every synaptic path coded to emit pain signals. Like straight razors charged with static electricity peeling through the mid-dermal layers of his skin.

His depression then slanted into an anxious slope about the next moment he would trigger such punishing agony which opened the door to vivid dreams that stepped through subconscious barriers to keep him company in his waking hours when John was out on a supply run. As May bloomed into June, John left him alone more often.

“You really need to be back on your chill pills,” said Jessica.

Malcolm blinked at her, wondering how his mother knew to crash the pity party in his train car underground. 

In six inch black widow stilettos with candy red soles, Jessica was dressed for the boudoir. The extravagantly flirty details of her sexy lingerie belied the fact that she was a hallucination. Her strapless red brassiere spilled out of a lustrous black under bust corset. She was in sheer red panties framed by red garters dotted with black hearts. Her hair was in a high ponytail, brushed out and skimming her décolletage.

“You’re not my mother. Don’t tell me what to do.”

Jessica scoffed. “That’s what you say to your actual parent.”

She spread herself on the metal bar framing one of the train car seats. Her heel dinged a wood pole.

“Of course I’m not really Jessica. I just thought I’d get your attention by wearing her skin suit.”

“You are definitely a repressed aspect of myself. What’s going on with me, id?” said Malcolm.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, yet again. John is getting bored. You’re not as sparkly,” pouted Jessica.

“Serial killer murders kidnapped pregnant omega. Redundant headline surprises no one,” said Malcolm. “So what if he puts me in the grave? I’m already miles down.”

Jessica rolled onto the floor and crawled to Malcolm’s bedding. He had a straight shoot view of her rouged nipples and the hood of her enlarged clitoris.

“You don’t care about you, but you very much object to your baby killed before it gets to fuck.” Jessica crouched over him, squatting on her heels.

“How do I stop him from offing me? He’s a killer. Prior to this conversation, I thought he was the one with mommy issues,” Malcolm said.

“You need to shhhhhut up,” Jessica said, her lips puckering like a rosebud as she kissed the finger to her lips.

“Shut your mouth. Feed the monster.” Her mouth stayed parted, tongue skimming her bottom teeth.

“I’m not co-killing with him,” said Malcolm.

“No, you dumb twink. John is a killer,” said Jessica.

She opened his legs, the tips of her scarlet flecked black nails dragging along skin that hadn’t been touched for many, many nights.

“You know men. You know killers. John is known to you. You’re not afraid of him. You’re not afraid of what he can do to you. He was never your bogeyman,” Jessica whispered sinuously.

“He may have a biological advantage on you, or so he thinks.” Jessica’s grin smeared the red on her lips, like blood on a dead woman’s face.

“Little Johnny wants his mommy,” Jessica said.

Malcolm closed his eyes.

“Of course I’m not afraid of him. John is John. But me? I always take things too far. I hate what I can do. But I need more. I’m starving,” said Malcolm.

He could hear Jessica. “You have to feel for the guy. He thinks he can marry pussy without paying for it. If he knew that he was sticking little Johnny into the belly of the beast…”

“Feed the monster,” Malcolm said, laughing in his delirium.

He knew John was going to kill him and dump his desecrated corpse where Martin Whitly would hear about it. Malcolm no longer underwent heat cycles that appealed to John’s primal alpha drive. He didn’t have much to keep John’s axe from popping his lungs.

The next time John pawed at him, Malcolm went along with his alpha’s distasteful preferences. John couldn’t stay hard if Malcolm didn’t play dead.

“Quiet. Don’t fucking wiggle,” said John. He clearly did not know Malcolm.

Malcolm literally could not imagine a scenario less arousing than lying on his back, dressed like a preacher’s wife, with his eyes either shut or staring off unblinking. Pretending to feel nothing with John poking him.

Pregnancy made him extra sensitive when John lifted his skirt to finger him or to cup his swollen pussy lips through his underwear in poorly lit or dim areas.

Any respect that Malcolm had for himself lay prone like the bodies John preferred to fuck. His despair crested when John fingered him into abrupt orgasms, magnifying the sensations of John’s fat and long cock that made Malcolm soak his stockings.

“Dead whore,” John grunted on top of him.

As the summer days coasted along, John indulged himself more playfully. He asked Malcolm to wear perfume and lipstick and nail polish on Malcolm’s infrequently trimmed fingernails. Loud necklaces and bangles. Flimsy, gaudy, constricting clothes that wouldn’t look out of place on a sex worker. The clothes which John provided him showed off the small but undeniable breasts.

John would kiss off the pink lipstick and then track lip color onto Malcolm’s chest. John’s lips were bright pink the first time he licked omega cunt. Malcolm’s miniskirt was a leopard print little number that didn’t need to be tugged or lifted. John spread him and ate it up. Malcolm lied still, his bottle blond hair covering his watery eyes.

Every time John finished, he left Malcolm in street wear with his breasts out, bra warped, straps twisted on his elbows. His once pink nipples turned more brownish as though John's shadow clung to his flesh. Panties stayed on as well, squishy from John’s spunk like a wet rubber band digging into his crack.

But this was somehow a more favorable circumstance than John leaving him for days at a time. Malcolm was sponging come and kiss marks from his breasts when he noticed Gil sitting with his leg over his knee. Gil wore a smile and one satin black bow tie. His smile had two gold crowns where his eyeteeth should have been. Each gold tooth was studded with a ruby.

Gil spread out on the upholstered seat in the train car. His cock pressed his abdominal muscles like a monstrous densely rolled cinnamon stick, knot swelling against his groin like a roasted apple. While age had packed on comfortable layers, anytime he moved, the lines defining his musculature deepened. His elbows looked cut because he had avoided overly bulking his upper arms, taking care to balance the tone dynamics of his arm muscles.

“You remember the first time you saw me without my clothes?” Gil said.

“Didn’t see much. I was awake when you were getting Jackie water.”

“And years later, you figured out that Jackie was not having bad dreams when we woke you up.”

Malcolm covered himself with the sheet and shimmied out of his stained clothes.

“Why are you here, as Gil?” asked Malcolm.

“You need to get off,” Gil, or rather, a projection of Gil answered.

“Not to Gil. That’s so wrong. Not even once.”

“That’s what you told yourself so you were a goody goody. But look where denying yourself got you.”

“Go away!” Malcolm cried. He cocooned himself alone without his thoughts, naked and paralyzed under the sheet like one of John’s playthings.

John must’ve noticed the longer duration of Malcolm’s depressive slumps. He came to Malcolm, arm extending a little cage with a friend inside. John peered at him expectantly over the fat budgie with sky blue for tits.

“Bird’s name is Happy,” introduced John.

Malcolm dutifully gave thanks and honored the gift with a quick brush of his lips. John put his hand on the back of Malcolm’s hair, dark at the roots, and he pushed down. Malcolm bent at the knees, doing his best not to breathe while John fucked his throat. If John didn’t come on his make-up then Malcolm would lie flat on the rubber mattress while John humped his face and and buried his nose between Malcolm’s legs.

At the end of his 2nd trimester, the increase of Malcolm’s blood volume made him run too hot for John’s liking. With his belly showing a definite curve, John would plow him on his side, his skirt hitched, panting from behind. John came harder if Malcolm strapped on shoes with the clear heels, worn only for bed.

Gil, or rather, a projection of Gil, lounged and smoked, cherry red tip glowing in the dim train car. Gil talked to him which Malcolm found infinitely more interesting than John swelling his cunt with a hot glaze.

“When did we get so far apart?” Gil asked. This time he showed up in a red suit, looking so yummy that Malcolm wanted to peel off his clothes like an apple.

‘The kidnapping, hello,’ Malcolm thought, with John rutting him.

Gil’s no nonsense expression stopped Malcolm from crying when John ripped strands of his bleached hair.

“Why wasn’t I called when you retreated home to lick your wounds? Don’t you trust me not to bust your nuts past a certain point? I know you’re grown.”

Gil’s eyes on him dressed like garbage and smothered by filth sparked a moment of pleasure, made Malcolm twitch even inside John’s vice grip.

When John left him to rinse his dick, Malcolm answered the question.

“I do trust you, Gil. I can’t trust me.”

“Why. You still feel guilty about Jackie?”

Malcolm shook his head. “I came to her funeral. I owed favors to peeps who covered me so I could attend.”

“Then why didn’t you come sit with me at her viewing?? I was slipping, despite the people around me, for three whole hours. You could’ve spent that time with me. I would’ve loved it.”

“It wouldn’t have been right of me,” Malcolm said, squirming.

“Because,” Gil said.

“I watched you for three whole hours. I was hot for you at Jackie’s thing!”

“And I went and found you. Hugged you even when I needed comfort.”

“Gil.”

“Stroke off, Bright. You should feel good when you think about me.”

Malcolm looked into Gil’s face, remembered how Gil made him feel. Malcolm fisted his fucked out hole and palmed slick onto the head of his cock. He relaxed without anyone breathing down his neck, feeling like he got one in over John when he squirted, his own pleasure washing over John’s fingerprints on his legs.

* * *

The first time John got drunk, he grabbed Malcolm's dick and wedged his cock between Malcolm's ass cheeks. When Malcolm clocked his jaw in self defense, John blacked Malcolm's eye and bashed Malcolm's head. Malcolm didn't think he was concussed, but his stunned reaction gave John the opportunity to sling the chain beneath Malcolm's chin. A second blow bled Malcolm's nose, forcing his cheek into the mattress. John looped the chain under his neck and squeezed the chain links. The metal blunted his throat, pinching his neck.

Malcolm's eyes bulged as John strangled him, cold metal twisted from John's hot fists, drowning in copper and pain and steel. He saw stars but didn't black out, clawing awake as John forced his leg up and mounted his ass, stabbing into Malcolm with a choke hold that made him bite his cheek. Malcolm's jaw clenched, his face distorted, gurgling his screams as John fell into him. John's nose pressed his forehead, foul mouth on his ear.

"Die whore. Just die," John begged softly. "Die so I come."

Malcolm understood then that John didn't know who he was inside. A sob heaved through Malcolm's chest. Then Malcolm inhaled deeply before submerging himself in a lake of fire, going slack and drifting like dead wood. John's girth scraped his ass raw, zealously pounded away Malcolm's desire to feel anything.

"Dead whore," John moaned. 

His mouth smashed into a throat mottled by cold steel. He tasted blood red lips that wouldn't kiss back. He reared up, his arms flexing as he thrust with all his might; voice keening as he fucked deep, mattress squealing.

It didn't matter when Malcolm had to scream, his survival instincts overwhelming him to fight his aggressor. John got what he needed; he was shooting too hard to care. Malcolm rolled out from John's sated body, crawling away on his aching chest to the bed's edge. John found him too injured to walk and he was remorseful in his sobriety.

Sodomy was something that John viewed as a heinous act, in accordance with God's word.

"The devil got into me. I'm so sorry, Mal. Please forgive me."

John had a boiled rag in hand to help dab off the crusted blood and to soothe his puffy eye swollen shut. But Malcolm flinched from his outstretched palms and covered his ears, shaking his head.

"God damn it. I wouldn't hurt you if I didn't have spirits in me. If I promise not to do that to you, can you forgive me?" John demanded.

He threw down the rag when Malcolm turned his back. 

"Go away." Malcolm steeled himself for another beat down. Dried blood pulled at his cheek. His pubic hairs stung him, where they were bunched together in stiffened jizz from where John tore his ass into a well of blood.

To Malcolm's astonishment, John listened to him, turning his cheek without another word of protest. John slung his tote over his sweat stained shirt. And he stayed gone.

Malcolm limped around, relying on sore arms to grip at walls and ledges and stay upright. He moaned and yelped from bending into the barrel of water outside the train car, cupping the water in his hands and dribbling at his skin where he would never feel clean again.

Malcolm let his skirt drop to the cement after he used it to scrape his crevices and his legs. He wore his shirt, long as a homely tunic, and he tented it over his curled legs to stay warm in bed.

John returned with a bounty of food. He had three Styrofoam containers in a bag. The food was so warm that water beaded on top of the lids.

John said grace over the food and let Malcolm have first pick. 

"Do you forgive me now that I gave you space? To think?"

Malcolm shook his head. He scarfed down the meal in case John planned to starve him.

"I see that I'll have to work harder for you to forgive me my sins." A smile cracked his ridged worn face. "But to me, this is a labor of love. I will go out again and let God soften your heart."

John left him with a jug of filtered water and canned vegetables. He returned from his outing freshly showered. His hair washed and combed and clothes smelling of laundry softener.

John went prostrate on both knees at Malcolm's feet. He presented Malcolm a polished silver chain necklace with a carved ruby gemstone. 

"I got this for you. To show you that I was thinking about you and what I did to you. I repent my reprehensible actions. Say you'll forgive me."

John threw back his arms, like a man preparing for judgment and crucifixion.

Malcolm's mind fired off at the blood stained precious silver. This would have belonged to a woman past middle age. The hint of oil-based fragrance pointed to a Catholic believer who anointed herself in daily prayer. She had been a cleanly type, the sort to shine her jewelry before seeing people. The chain was fastened by a custom sized clasp, enlarged for rheumatic hands. He made no move to put it on.

"You took it off some poor innocent woman. You went out and you killed her and fucked her, didn't you?" Malcolm's tears splashed on the ruby pooled like blood on his hands.

"No, no, you've got it wrong. I left her alone. Didn't touch her 'cept to get my knife outta her," John assured him.

"I've been faithful to you. I haven't touched anyone since I gave you my vows. Please believe me. Forgive me," John entreated.

John's arms closed around Malcolm's legs as he groveled. Malcolm's arms raised but he couldn't get away. He dropped the jewelry.

John was butting his head into Malcolm's groin, sobbing for mercy.

A woman's grievous cry filled Malcolm's head as he faced down a man who would sew a field of blood, if Malcolm didn't stop it.

His fingers snaked into John's coarse gray hair. Malcolm patted him. "John! You're forgiven."

He would forgive John swiftly every time that John demanded it of him. He would say whatever John needed to hear, if only to stop John from inflicting his anger at Malcolm on another innocent bystander. Malcolm couldn't live with himself if his own pettiness killed someone.

John shuddered in relief and he nosed into Malcolm's long shirt. He stuck his face in the dip of Malcolm's legs, palming Malcolm's ass. He was hard, knowing Malcolm wore no underwear.

"Are you still hurt down there? I want in. I need it, God."

Malcolm swallowed when John sucked in a deep breath, cooling his loins and then moaning hot into Malcolm's sensitive flesh. Malcolm caught himself mid-recoil, knowing how well John dealt with rejection.

Malcolm braced his hands on John's shoulders. He didn't have the strength for this. He hated himself for what he agreed to.

"Be gentle," Malcolm said, broken.

"I'll take my time with you," John promised. John scooped up the silver necklace and stood on his boots to lay a dry kiss on Malcolm's split lip. Malcolm's eye watered from John's cheek pressed against the bruising.

Malcolm kept his face bowed, tensing when John laid a weighty, possessive hand on his shoulder. John brushed Malcolm's overgrown hair to one side, revealing the worst of the bruising from when John chain choked Malcolm for anal. His beard tickled Malcolm's bare and marked neck when he smacked a wet kiss.

Then John encircled his neck with another chain, clasping Malcolm to him like precious silver. Malcolm had seconds to compose his facial muscles before John spun him around, dipping him backwards into a kiss that left Malcolm clinging to John.

Malcolm didn't kiss back. But when John allowed him to stand, Malcolm went into the train car, lied still, let John strip off his clothes until he was left wearing what John robbed off a corpse. John posed him flat on his face. Then John's hand slid down his cold chest, pressed between his nipples.

John broke his promise to be gentle not long after he softly entered Malcolm, fondling the ruby warmed from Malcolm's skin. Malcolm muffled his pain into the mattress as John forgot himself and plunged in full dive, rutting and roughing, fist closed around his victim's jewels.

"Dead whore," John swore into Malcolm's hair. He smelled holy oil and cleaved himself to heaven, mind blanking as he knew godhead.

The thin silver chain snapped when he spilled into the object of his pleasure.

"Mal, I'm sorry," John spoke tenderly. His breath hitched as he withdrew. Their connection stretched like the shining threads between their loins.

When John cautiously nudged Malcolm onto his side, the ruby teardrop rolled down his wet, bruised throat. But John's gaze was intent on Malcolm's blank, glazed eyes. John regretted putting a shiner on Malcolm. He couldn't make love to Malcolm face to face because of it. He cast aside the broken stone, its value to him like old blood.

"I hurt you again. Will you forgive me?" John gently brushed away a lock of Malcolm's dyed hair and tucked it back. 

"You're forgiven," Malcolm agreed.

John kissed at the thin red dent on Malcolm's skin from the silver necklace. His fingers splayed on Malcolm's belly, couldn't wait for it to grow heavy like fruit that came from seed.

"Thank God," John said. He flipped onto his back and shut his eyes. "Sing us to sleep then."

John's sadistic treatment of Mal seemed to run as deep as a black hole. Yet John, following the trend of many godly bigots before him, was a whole lot worse when he had drink.

Malcolm couldn't remain still with John pounding his pussy, mashing him into bed springs that bruised his back.

"What's wrong, Mal?" John heeded the signs of Malcolm's discomfort and pulled out. His cock was a thick tower, blooded near the base.

"Poor thing, was hurting you," John slurred.

His ready kindness turned Malcolm to stone, wondering what this display of husbandly tenderness was going to cost, how much his body needed to pay.

"Will you forgive me?"

Malcolm turned his head from John's pitiful expression to John's canvas tote which was flapped closed but for the long handle of John's axe extended upward, ready for John to take up and to vent his marital frustrations on another innocent soul.

"Yes," Malcolm whispered.

John lowered himself, shouldering Malcolm's waist, arms locked around his middle, burying his face into hurt pussy. His tongue savored bloodied flesh, like split bruised peach. 

"Say you forgive me, Mal." So that John would have permission to use him again.

"I forgive you," Malcolm said. He forced down the kneejerk revulsion that would kick off a panic spiral. If his body locked up, John would pin him down and take him more amorously.

Malcolm's sacral area met the filthy sheets once more as John spread him, tonguing down his engorged slit and then lapping at his crack, the tip of John's tongue swirling on a pinprick hole that pulsed from John's eagerness.

Malcolm grabbed the sheets, exhaling to stop his moan. He wouldn't give it to John. He wouldn't. He stayed quiet as John digitally penetrated his anus.

"Help me," said John. 

His prick throbbed between Malcolm's lips, the thickness of blood hanging heavily over Malcolm's head, if Malcolm didn't do as John pleased.

Malcolm wrapped his tongue and lips around the head of John's cock and he imagined the flavor of cool blue mint until his mouth watered and he tasted ejaculate.

When John's cock was dripping, he removed his fingers sunken into Malcolm's body and pressed his cock into a tight ring, not thrusting, not rough, patiently waiting on owned flesh to open for his firm rod, the weight of it throbbing with power.

Malcolm bit the sheets, choked on his spit, when John pushed in. The head of him didn't hurt Malcolm overly much, but then John's length curved when he thrust and the whole of it sprang into a straight pike which lanced through Malcolm, lubed with pussy blood and slick, piercing Malcolm with hot agony.

He couldn't move from the sharp pangs of John breaking him anew. John liked it when he didn't move. Malcolm tipped his head back and shut his eyes which brimmed with overdue pain.

John rode him fervently, spurred by Malcolm's deathly pale coloring, blue veins running cold beneath skin bleached white as bone, one of the most beautiful things he would fuck. Though it wasn't his preference, John stroked Malcolm's small prick. Malcolm lifted his lids, lashes fluttering from John's panting hot breath. Malcolm's eyes were like glass as he burst in John's palm. His climax sent John into bliss, rutting his claim until Malcolm felt all his used holes.

John lunged onto him, sticky hand burrowed in Malcolm's dyed hair. John inhaled deeply while Malcolm gagged from the stink of distillery oozing from John's pores. 

"That first time you followed me and I got a hold of you, you reminded me of your dad." John twitched softly inside him, cum leaking out and sealing their bodies.

"But now you smell like me. God made us one. I know you're mine for keeps." John was grateful in his heart as he kissed Malcolm and tasted himself. He held down what was his in a vice grip, smelling himself on Malcolm.

Malcolm's torso cramped, a stitch in his left side where John marked him. He stopped crying out of his eyes but his sorrows wept internally, flowed out of his broken ass along his purpled thighs, spilling like bitter hemlock milk that wouldn't kill him quickly enough.

* * *

Malcolm had insulted John, an outburst of rage additionally fueled by hormones and inadequate sunshine. John bruised his arm, dug in his fingers, and snatched the blue-breasted budgie from Malcolm. 

“John, please! I’m sorry. Shit. PLEASE!” Mal’s fingers tightened along his jaw. He bit his fingertips as he screamed for John to stop.

The innocent budgie shrilled a distress note before John’s cruel hand closed with finality.

“It’s too late,” John uttered solemnly in the quiet. “What do I do with the pain you spoke into me?”

Malcolm sprawled on the rotted carpeting of the broke down train car, sobs racking his bosom.

“I can’t strike you down when I must keep you and our child in one piece.” 

John bent down on one knee. “I do this to you with a heavy heart.”

Happy the bird cheeped a protest, as if to say, _“Unhand me! Unhand me at once!”_

Malcolm’s head snapped up sharply, tears dropping from his lash to the dirty carpet. His eyes went from the flutter of white wings to the deep smolder of John’s look, capturing the light like obsidian, with passion that knifed into Malcolm.

“You didn’t kill the--”

“I wouldn’t. God made this chirpy bastard sinless.” John kissed Malcolm’s forehead.

“But I will have to take away your Happy and set it loose. Say bye bye Birdy.”

Malcolm tucked in his lips. “That’s fair.”

He put his hands flat on John’s gray shirt and kissed both of John’s cheeks.

John cupped his smooth chin. Malcolm’s eyes flicked down, painfully conditioned to shy away from John’s attention.

“Why does this please you? You'll never see your pet again,” said John.

“I don’t know. My feelings are everywhere. I don’t even know what I said to you when I flipped out. You’re letting the bird go. I sort of love that?” guessed Malcolm.

Malcolm scrabbled to get up, but his ankles and knees wouldn’t cooperate. His feet throbbed from the extra fluid which contributed to the baby weight.

John stood on his boots.

“Hold,” said John, offering the bird perched on his knuckles.

Malcolm’s hands cupped to receive.

John lifted him to standing and he walked Malcolm to the mattress. Then John brought the cage over. Malcolm nudged Happy into its bird home, resting his left hand on the bars of the cage. The wedding band glimmered on his finger.

“Don’t get cute. I’m sending the bird up.”

“Okay.” Malcolm rolled onto his side and he curled his top leg. 

He licked his lips, his blue eyes half-lidded. “Come to bed.”

John set aside the bird cage. Malcolm pawed at the crotch of his pants, rolled down the waistband, palmed at the unexpectedly firm glutes which John hid under slate gray sweats.

John sat on the mattress, knees bent, head back, mouth parted from Malcolm nuzzling his thigh and suckling his cock. John stuck his hand down Malcolm’s shirt and squeezed one breast, thumbing a rock hard nipple. Malcolm choked on his distended cock, hummed a low note that went to John’s balls. John didn’t like his partners so spirited but Malcolm’s mouth was a novelty to try.

John grabbed his soft face, slid his palm under Malcolm’s jaw, and fucked into Malcolm’s throat making his cheeks puff out.

Once Malcolm got John too hard to think clearly, Malcolm twisted up his long skirt, revealing the knee length socks that warmed and compressed his legs. Malcolm’s skirt draped over his hand stroking off his small prick. He straddled John’s waist and regained his balance to compensate for his drooped belly. His trembling hand guided John’s cock to his soaking wet cunt. He wasn’t in heat but he was certainly on fire.

He surprised a blasphemous moan from John, crying in shock when he impaled himself on at least a dozen inches of cock. Malcolm dropped like an anvil because of the load he carried. He spread his legs wider, folded his shins under his thighs, the tops of his socks bent into John’s legs. 

John ripped off Malcolm’s shirt to watch his breasts smacking into his large belly, each time Malcolm lifted himself up and thudded smack dab into spread flesh. The baby was heavy on John’s groin, but John thrust up, locking his hands on Malcolm’s hips to see the look on Malcolm’s face where that whore mouth gaped to a scream but nothing came out with John’s cock filling up and fucking out his last breath.

Malcolm nutted into his skirt and his cunt muscles clenched. John nearly came when deeper muscles contracted exquisitely around the head of his cock like another succulent mouth hidden in an omega body. Malcolm was slumped on top of him, shuddering in afterglow. John tipped him sideways and lifted Malcolm’s leg, spooning his back.

Tears rolled down Malcolm’s cheek. He was still on his climax, was coasting along a plateau that felt like a good ride, but for John’s hard prick working him over. He came again, his limbs tensing sharply as though bracing for tsunami waves, slobber all over his cheek and chin.

He was absolutely lost when John commanded him, “ **Come, whore**.”

Malcolm’s eyes rolled and he passed out, going limp and helpless, just the way John liked it. John buried himself in a perfect and lifeless body, emptying into an unfeeling vessel. John turned Malcolm’s still face, pale and blank, and claimed lips that wouldn’t kiss back. He bit into a vulnerable neck, seizing up in bliss when Malcolm didn’t resist John’s teeth.

“Ah! Love you, whore. God damn you.”

Malcolm rolled onto his back, gasping as he struggled to breathe. His whole body had jerked in his sleep, pinned down by John’s baby grown inside of him. The movement caused a bounty of jizz to cascade down his sore thighs. He whimpered, feeling John’s depravity though he was alone. Happy was gone.

His own jizz coated his left hand, dulling the golden ring. The baby moved and it brought tears. He would never be alone again.

“I’ve got Sunshine on a cloudy day… Oof! I can’t feed you if you’re doing pinball on my gastric pouch. Calm down.”

A smile creased his eyes. He wiped at the drool with his shirt, hugged himself around his breasts which would bruise from John’s mouth. Without a husband around to lay down the law or the hymnal book, Malcolm sang what was in his soul.

“My girl, my girl,” he told his baby with many long love notes.

“I’ve got so much honey,” he sang, pitch rising higher than a free bird, “the bees envy me.”

“I’ve got a sweeter song… than my bird in a tree.” Malcolm was silly when he was off the chain.

John hunched outside the entrance to the train car, locked down where he stood. If he went in, Malcolm would not sing anymore which was problematic when John desired to hear the whole thing.

When all was hushed from inside the train car, John checked in on Malcolm, found him wrapped around his belly. He threw a blanket over Malcolm, not liking how it looked when the blanket covered his face. He pulled the blanket to Malcolm’s shoulders. Then he shackled both ankles, leaving plenty of room for when they would swell up later. John passed the metal links through his hands, eyes on the unfortunate object of his attentions, and he crushed his mouth hungrily to Malcolm’s chain.

* * *

Crying came easily to Mal who was in the third trimester of pregnancy and would birth a preemie newborn that was nearly full term, should the unthinkable happen. His skin itched without adequate cocoa butter. Stretch marks radiated from his belly button like waves of red heat. Blue veins stood out on his pale chest, swelled from expanded mammary glands. A brown line bisected the baby dome which John liked to run his fingernail along. The bite mark faded silver and thinned on his stretched skin.

The chin stubble went sparse in patches, forcing him to shave often by his best determination of day/night. He never felt hunger pangs with their baby butting at his literal stomach. Mal could only tell he was hungry when his mouth hissed inadvisable words. John had taken away his bird.

Though he couldn’t see his steps, the pain of waddling more than 30 minutes assured him that his feet were attached and that they were puffy ugly. Mal was justifiably crying as he duck walked down the shoulder of a wooded country road. A whimper cut his weeping whenever he inadvertently stepped on gravel. The color of the leaves fallen from the boughs of old trees indicated either late October or November. Winter would come and he was scared for his baby.

Mal didn’t want to walk a dead man’s curve as the sun set behind gray clouds streaked eerily with orange-yellow light. Mal wore an embroidered peasant blouse with elastic capped sleeves, a calf length denim skirt tightened with shoelaces under his giant belly. Swollen with baby in the chilly weather, someone was bound to slow their vehicle when they saw him. Couldn’t miss him when he was shaped like a hick snowman with straw blond hair like a scarecrow.

“Get in. You can’t be out here like this.” It was a tall and old man by himself in a Chevy.

“Go away,” Mal said. “Please. Drive on by.”

“If you’re in some kind of trouble, sweet cheeks.” He did not heed Mal’s dispirited warning.

“You’re in dire peril. Should’ve kept driving and called police. Now it’s too late for us both.” Mal bunched his hands over his face.

Mal heard the meaty thwack of an axe splintering a kind stranger’s rib cage and chipping at vertebrae, the gargling wheeze, as the man was dragged bodily on unforgiving asphalt by the handle of the murder weapon. Mal could hear the man's final death rattle through the crunching of leaves. John kicked leaves over the blood trail of a successful kill. 

John wiped the head of the axe on the man’s clothes before covering the man with the leaves. The blood would coagulate in the open air, gluing leaves from blowing away. The leaves stuck to the blood, the autumnal colors trembling like Mal’s right hand as he made a fist to scream into, smelling blood and tasting vomit. 

John moved large rocks on top of the corpse. 

He kissed Mal’s lips. “Why don’t you go and put your feet up in the car? I can finish up here.”

Mal backed into the passenger seat, one hand on the upholstery of the dashboard and his other hand on the frame of the car. Then he lifted his throbbing lower legs and swiveled into a tipsy roll, landing with a cushioned bump on his back. The air from the car vents made him sick. But on a chilly day following rain, it was necessary to leave the heated air as is to avoid fogging the windows. He left the passenger door ajar, the bite in the air chasing away the memory of blood plugging the back of his throat.

Mal saw the phone mounted on its magnetic holder on the dash, the man’s GPS app set to destination home. He called the first number to flash through his mind, aborted the call when he saw John’s approach. Mal pinned their location, shared the GPS location via text and then blocked the text recipient’s number. Just like he practiced in his mind hundreds of times. Time ran out before he could delete the text and the call history.

John would bust him but Malcolm expected to suffer for finally taking action.

The navigation on the GPS was on full screen when Mal keeled over and spewed his sick out the car door. The baby kicked as terror knotted his insides almost as thoroughly as John had so many months before. He had risked too much, could’ve hurt the baby if he inflicted punishment on his own cells from betraying the alpha who marked him. 

John tossed his canvas tote into the backseat of the Chevy. 

“Is the baby coming?” asked John. He approached the passenger side, staying clear of the vomit, and lay his hand on the left side of the baby belly.

“No contractions,” reported Mal.

John helped Mal get settled. He hovered so closely that Mal tasted the sweat of his exertion from hunting. 

“I saw you fiddling with the phone,” said John, reaching between Mal’s legs.

Mal screamed as John slapped the thin metal bar horizontally positioned beneath the passenger seat. The depressed release lever flung Mal backwards as the passenger seat abruptly flattened out a full 180 degrees. John clambered on top of Mal, trusting his weight on his legs as he gripped the headrest. Mal’s face contorted in anguish as John’s left hand topped the baby dome.

“When police show up,” said John, “who do I take with me? You or the baby?”

“What do you mean, John. You mean to kill or to take hostage?”

“I think you know me well enough to figure out which.”

“Me. Take me,” said Mal, right hand shaking on the baby.

Mal didn’t blink when John butted a Taurus PT111 into his jaw. He angled his head, for John to get a cleaner shot.

John holstered his piece inside his waistband, safety engaged for the drive ahead. His palm covered Mal’s twitchy hand.

“You know what feels gooder than fuckin' a hundert sweet talkin' whores?”

“Murdering them,” guessed Mal.

John leered at him. “Good answer, but not what I was about to say. That’s the problem with you little shits, you think you know everything.”

John climbed off of Mal. He closed the passenger door and walked around the front of the car while Mal rocked himself like a turtle flipped on its shell. His palms smacked the glove compartment, the car seat thudding upright when Mal swatted at the release lever. The hinges cranked when Mal slumped back.

“Tell me anyway?” Mal wheedled when John buckled in and shifted gears.

“Nah, you’re that damn smart, you tell me. Do you know what’s better than one hundert whores? Give it the ol’ college try, genius.”

A line furrowed between Malcolm’s brows. “Growing up with your strict grandparents without any siblings or cousins deprived you of the opportunity to be around girls and young women. You saw gender but couldn’t ascribe person hood to girls and young women. Hence, why you think of the world in terms of men and whores. Women or girls who you’d respect belong to men, tagged in roles subservient to men. A female who belonged to a man wasn’t, in your eyes, available. It’s interesting that you preyed on sex workers who weren’t being pimped but who worked the streets as free agents.”

“You were never going to tell me this, but… you have a person. You met them like years ago. Either they weren’t matured yet or you were never alone together but you got to know them on a personal level while you were discreetly exploring your urges. Later on when you hooked up with them, that was the first time you were inside a person you knew versus getting off in a body. For a minute, your emotions and your physicality were aligned. Orgasm sparked by an organic connection, yum. You never got over them. You couldn’t go back to sex with things. You stopped doing the whores you killed because no thing could get you off like your person. But, problem is, stalking and killing is an ingrained pleasure. In order for you to achieve a similar _hmmm_ crest, you fantasize about your person when you’re killing.”

“Do they know you live like this?” Malcolm quipped, eyeing up John’s posture and the placement and tension of John’s hands. 

In two blinks, he nodded. 

“Yeah, deal breaker. You can continue God’s mission to clean up this city and then come home to them after sating your blood lust. So your one person? You’ll never give them up because they’re central to your purpose. You would pick that person over a thousand whores. You would have something that your mentor didn’t. A transparent relationship with someone who keeps the home fires burning every time you return from your hunt.”

“Of course, as I’m ‘the spouse’, I doubt you’ll introduce us,” Malcolm concluded.

John stared coolly ahead. He dislodged the victim’s phone and lobbed it into the trees.

“You fucking missed it. Big time. Just. Shut up for the drive.”

John steered the hijacked vehicle to a narrow dirt strip that seemed like it spiraled off the face of the earth. After many jolts which Mal thought would end with the car rolling into a ravine or flipping onto bare treetops, John scraped the Chevy’s undercarriage on rocks jutting from weeds and soil. The Chevy model pre-dated software equipment tracked by satellite. Canvas tote slung from his shoulder, John left the simple key in the ignition before helping Mal.

Mal had to stop often with the baby snuggling into Mal’s warm bladder which frankly was compromised from their twisted drive. Mal sucked it up for each pit stop, squatting and raising his denim skirt before shaking off trickles. The satisfaction of a fully drained bladder had been eluding him for days. He wanted so badly to wash his hands like ten times with pink soap from a public bathroom. Mal yearned for amenities. Memories of airport lounges and motel bookings in-between far flung investigative cases in the contiguous US brought tears.

John kept close to Mal’s elbow, insuring Mal kept his footing for their hike.

“You're home in the outdoors,” observed Mal. “You could spend days out here.”

“No one would miss me,” agreed John.

“Why didn’t you move to big sky country when you had the chance? You could’ve hunted in picturesque landscapes. Plenty of secret nooks.”

“Not too many women out there,” said John. “Your father went both ways for sport. I’m pickier.”

“Would you have picked me out if not for my father?” asked Mal.

“Maybe with a few beers in me.” John squeezed his upper arm. “But you would’ve never looked at me twice.”

John halted and rubbed his thumbs into Mal’s shoulders. His fingers undulated like spider legs as he pulled aside the blond ombré of Mal’s wavy hair to kiss at his unwashed skin. Mal’s breath hitched, tensing as if he could feel John smothering him in cotton, ripping Mal in a bloody fuck.

John tipped Mal’s face upward, pointedly expectant. Mal wanted to get them moving again so he could stop feeling his heels. Mal strained his arches but he managed a dutiful peck on John’s lip, closing his blue eyes to shut out John’s staring. 

This time John let him go without licking into his mouth. Sometimes Mal’s throat locked up from how violently he gagged from John’s breath inside him, tears prickling from how much he didn’t want it, almost never wanted it.

Once John had them sheltered in a wooden house that had a detached outhouse, he took his pleasure of the unwilling omega, in a hard bed, under coarse blankets, pulping Mal indelicately with a firm rod.

Mal’s distaste had a perverse effect of escalating John’s sexual advances. Each shivering withdrawal and resentful brush made John hot for mortified flesh. He embraced Mal fervently, hard at full mast, jabbing what felt like a spear of manwood into Mal’s tender canal ripening for his bastard. Mal endured beautifully, his suppressed outcries and bodily resistance spurring John to further depths of hard use spiked with wanton cruelties.

Mal would still himself deliberately until John was out of proximity but unbeknownst to Mal, John hovered within earshot, basking in Mal’s tear soaked gasps and raggedy howls. By himself, Mal would stack his fists between his knees to keep pressure off of his cunt swollen lickety split, quaking from the cramps caused by John’s ardor. Crying offset the torturous conditions to which John subjected him. When John came to him gentle, Mal willingly gave himself for plain touches and light rubs, anything for a blissful reprieve.

However nicely Mal pleaded, John made sure to put the omega in its place.

“John, I’ll be good. Touch me, soft. Not so much.”

“Do you accept all that I have for you?” asked John. His fingertips skimmed along Mal’s flushed skin, soothing where John’s palm had stung earlier.

“Yes, John.” He breathed out gratitude.

“Is it mercy when I punish you?”

Mal’s eyes watered when John’s fingers clamped his breasts, feeling the teeth marks and sore nipples from John pinching the nubs and pulling them to full crimson peaks.

“Ah! Yes,” Mal cried.

John laved on his breasts. Though small, he enjoyed the fit of them as he bit down, sucked the teats flat into the roof of his mouth. Felt it when Mal forgot to breathe. John withdrew his cock and put Mal on all fours. He palmed at the grossly huge mass where Mal swelled. Areas of skin beat black and blue on Mal’s ass and the little bruises on his pale back made John think of spotted cows. John fucked into loose pussy sloppy in its own slick. Mal’s voice deepening into a moan was like the lowing of cows.

John grinned at the comparison and closed his thumbs and index fingers around Mal’s breasts which were sagging heavy and swaying from each thrust of John’s hips. John squeezed Mal’s dangling tits and yanked down. Mal bucked under him, his cunt milking John right back.

“John!” He sounded shocked but he was wetter.

“Gimme your milk,” John mumbled.

“You can’t do that! That’s for—”

John tipped Mal onto the side. Tipped the fat cow. Mal was semi twisted, all his upper body weight on his one arm, his breasts spreading as though they were plated on a dish. John raised up Mal’s leg and steered the head of his cock into a slick wall seated behind Mal’s dick. John could only feel for it by the thin skin of his own cock. It felt like a soggy little plum which John understood to be Mal’s squirt trigger. John fucked him right there, mashing dead center.

Mal screamed, jizzing out of his untouched little prick, a thin spray of pussy juice arching through the humid air soaking John’s groin. John stayed hard, grabbed at the milk titties, swallowing one whole breast. Mal was wailing for him to stop making him come. Then Mal seized up, went completely dumb, eyes glazed over without any worded thoughts apparent.

John made a startled noise around his mouthfuls. He hadn’t expected the taste to run intensely sweet down his throat. The flavor definitely wasn’t his thing but he took his satisfaction from discovering that for himself. He suckled on sweet tits, swallowed whore’s milk, and Mal was just sopping inside that John could feel himself busting deeper where something gave, falling into a black hole that he never wanted to leave because here the darkness held him.

“Dead whore,” John groaned, purged, all of his filth dumped into Mal who was made to take it.

* * *

When his daily life was blacker than the shadows of the dead, Mal no longer entertained night terrors like he used to before John claimed him. Mal awakened to John’s child stabbing his bowels to descend upon the mortal coil. He was naked and cold, grown paler from the agony lancing through him. John had cut his clothes off of him after chaining Mal’s bare feet to the frame. His last moment of recall was of John pulling his brown-blond long hair, yanking many strands between his brutish fingers.

Mal wasn’t surprised, from a clinician’s perspective, by the increasingly sadistic abuse which John inflicted on him. Nature heightened John’s alpha drive, compounding the excitement of expecting his firstborn. Lastly, the risk of Mal dying in childbirth whet John’s appetites for cold cuts. While Mal understood why, knowledge left him woefully unprepared for his openings to blow open like the gates of hell admitting him to fresh torment. His intellect was inert in the savagery of being stripped to nothing but a birthing whore clad in John’s chains and a corpse’s ring, legs gaped for the coming of John’s seed.

The very last person Mal expected to be visited by was the figure of Dr. Whitly, his father. Mal was sure that Martin’s appearance was a hallucination like the others although instead of the bleached uniform dress at Claremont hospital, his father wore a striped knit shirt, high waisted jeans, brown belt, and his oatmeal beige sweater. His father’s mustache, sans beard, also loaned itself to the reality of his father’s actual presence under impossible circumstances.

“Father!” Mal spat. He covered his face, preferring death.

“My, my. Further along than I was led to believe. Dilated about eight centimeters, I’d say. We need you at ten,” Martin said, removing his sweater and laying it aside before rolling up his shirt sleeves.

John limped into the bedding area.

“Let him help,” said John, cheeks ashen beneath his whiskers.

“Help! Please! My role is not that of a helper! I’m the only capable man in these rustic environs,” Martin chided.

Martin kindled wood in the fireplace before quitting the space to obtain water from drums of rain catchers stored on an exterior deck.

“John?” Mal said confusedly before crying into an aggrieved moan. Despite his nudity, he was sticky with his own sweat.

“You’re going home. And so am I,” said John. He slumped on to the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Mal.

Mal observed with a more discerning examination of his captor. He observed the rough tourniquet from torn fabric knotted on John’s thigh, the dirt grains darkening John’s faded grays, his belt looped but left unbuckled after Martin caught him unawares.

“Father has killed you. You’ll lose sight first. Then your renal functions will decline and the paralytic toxins will incrementally cease neuromuscular activity impeding respiratory when your diaphragm either relaxes or contracts indefinitely.”

“Can you shut up til our baby gets here?” slurred John.

Martin returned, boiled the relatively clean runoff water from November rains. Instead of towels, Martin made do with the shreds that John had cut from Mal, the last time that he would ever rape.

“You are completely dilated but your water didn’t break. I may have to cut the amniotic sac!”

Martin foraged a thin but deep disposable aluminum pan more suited to catching oil drippings inside a roasting oven. Mal cried, tears flowing from the nightmare of John’s knife, steaming from a hot wash, in Martin’s unshakable hand, aimed between his cramped and sore legs. But alas! Mal was chained down.

“Bear down, my boy. A small incision when the caul becomes visible on the crowning baby. You’ll be right as rain. It’ll be a gusher, I will warn you,” said Martin.

“Don’t you cut my baby!” screamed Mal.

Beside Mal, John stared blankly, his facial muscles incapable of expression.

Once Martin nicked the sac, breaking Mal’s water for him, pungent and malodorous amniotic fluid splashed into the disposable aluminum pan and dribbled down Mal’s butt. Martin lifted the pan, tipping it as far from himself as possible. 

“It just figures that an experienced orderly is incapacitated to get his hands dirtier,” Martin bemoaned. He traipsed outdoors to empty the pan.

As Mal trembled and bore down on the birthing pains, enough time passed that Martin found other fabrics not coated by synthetics safe to boil. 

“My first grandchild deserves better. Malcolm needs to be in a facility that is sanitized and equipped. How dare you subject my family… to this! My son is Yale alumni summa cum laude, and I find him barefoot and pregnant under your charge!!” Martin snarled at John, advancing on him with a dirty knife.

“Father, he’s already a dead man,” Mal said, pained.

“There’s time in the day,” Martin purred. 

“Y-you knew about…” Horror cut through Mal’s agony.

“Yes, I knew about the H A R V A R D sweaters. At first, I was furious to catch you in academic _drag_.” His curled lip softened when he turned to Mal. 

“Harvard was your first choice, was it not? Top program in Psychiatric. I bethought myself, 'Why would my boy put on a pretense as thin as those H A R V A R D branded sweaters?’”

“Malcolm, I would’ve been as easily impressed with the truth. I liked Yale for you. If I went over the top and hammed up a particular institution, it’s only because I knew you wanted Harvard. Go bulldogs! Rolls off the tongue with more spirit than Go Crimson!” Martin shook a fist, lightly punching the air.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t suspect a thing, but—”

“I didn’t know my own school team,” Mal reminisced. Sportball was and would continue to be the bane of his existence.

His laugh snarled into a guttural scream as his pelvic floor shifted. 

“Squat. I need you to squat before you lie on your back and press your lumbar into the bed. Luckily you haven’t done an epidural,” Martin said, supporting Mal into standing and squatting.

Martin then manipulated Mal into lying supine, pelvis tilted, to help the baby. He had just enough time to stuff warm bunches of fabric beneath Mal before catching the little darling.

Martin dumped the fabric which soaked up the fecal matter into the disposable aluminum pan he had kept for bedside emergencies. He used up the last of the boiled cloth scraps to wipe his filthy hands and to exfoliate the newborn and slough off the nutrient dense coating. Shoe laces pinched off the umbilical cord, like blood soaked rabbit ears.

Mal grunted his relief when he passed the placenta.

Martin was very pleased with himself and impressed with his excellence in problem solving. Life and the beginnings of it were exceedingly messy and he had kept the patient’s bed free of contaminants and irritants.

Martin soothed his grandchild who also was a good screamer.

“I dearly wish I could call your sister. She should be the first one to report that she has a niece,” cooed Martin.

“My daughter?” Mal was euphoric. He was collapsed against John whose minimal chest movements indicated signs of life.

Martin lay the newborn skin to skin on Mal’s breast and abdomen. A soggy red fist pressed her crinkled ears. Fine gold strands shined in brilliant relief against her deeply tinged skin. Mal felt the weight of a whole new world embracing him, heard a whisper of breath that blew him away.

Martin went to fetch drinking water.

“I’m not sorry for you,” Mal informed John. “But I am sorry that you’re not able to see this beautiful girl. And if you’re able to hear me, you better listen up, John.”

Mal’s cracked lips parted, his heart in his throat and their child dear and near.

He sang the last verse that John would hear and the first of many for their baby girl.

_Abide with me, ‘tis eventide_  
_Thy walk today with me_  
_Has made my heart within me burn_  
_As I communed with Thee_  
_Thy earnest words have_  
_Filled my soul_  
_And kept me near Thy side_

Malcolm closed John’s eyes, mentally noted the tear drop, a single point of light in all that gray. He would remove the ring on his finger when he made his statements to the authorities. Malcolm would see the ring to its rightful place, not solely as evidence, but as the symbol of a once healthy marriage, a true union between an alpha and his omega, their little family taken too soon.

Upon his return, Martin served his child clean water. While Malcolm gratefully accepted the overflowing cup from his father, Martin swaddled the baby.

“I killed him too soon,” Martin said, nodding his head at the chains which kept Malcolm bound. 

John’s pockets yielded no key for the chains. In death, he would hold Malcolm to the last.

“Go and send for help,” said Malcolm.

“Are you quite certain?” checked Martin.

“Do it. And Father?”

“Yes, my boy?”

“Don’t come back here. Joan and I are going to be fine.”

“Joan,” said Martin, blinking rapidly. His feet moved, but his second glance at Joan slowed him.

“I’ll go, then. But do allow me to dispose of the garbage.” Martin hefted the gray corpse.

“Thank you, Father,” Malcolm said, belatedly.

Joan was rooting onto his teat when the peace of the moment shattered.

“NYPD!! We’ve got you John Watkins!” shouted law enforcement.

“He’s not here,” Malcolm croaked. While he was reasonably certain that he could hold Joan and never put her down, nursing a little toothless thing was quite painful. Drops of cloudy fluid trickled down his bare breast while Joan drew first blood and sucked down blooded milk.

Perhaps Malcolm ought to have shown embarrassment or modesty but he flouted general perception of his breasts as sex organs by sharing this natural intimate bond and not covering up or apologizing for what nature intended.

The armed officer lowered their eyes, lowered their weapon and radioed in for a blanket.

A brown man with salt and pepper hair and beard rushed the scene not long after, his vest looking uncharacteristically slap dash. A lock of black stuck to his forehead, possibly from the hiking.

“Got your text, Bright,” said Gil.

“Guess who showed el Jefe how to open the text,” said Dani who joined them.

Jokes aside, Bright’s people both looked wrecked which indicated to Malcolm that he must’ve looked a whole lot worse, next level trashed.

Gil wrapped him in the blanket and wouldn’t let go the entire time while they waited on bolt cutters. Finally, Gil swooped in, cradling Malcolm like he weighed nothing, like he was worth everything. Malcolm hugged around Gil’s neck, his eyes for the pretty little lady in Dani’s strong arms, bundled up in a bland but warm oatmeal beige sweater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 and 2 fulfills the prodigal_kink meme prompt. I hope to have Part 3 posted for Valentine's Day. If not, then early March.
> 
> French Narrator: Author was never heard from again.
> 
> Song lyrics "Abide with Me 'Tis Eventide" by Daniel Beck.


	3. Tremble a prayer

Rescuing Bright was a process more bitter than sweet. He wasn’t able to walk and the terrain was too rough for an ambulatory stretcher. Search and rescue alternated man power to convey him to a blockaded paved route and move him to a traverse rescue stretcher for an airlift to the hospital. Dani handed baby girl to the medic while Gil texted Jessica and Ainsley the address to the hospital, unable to call them on two service bars over the grinding chopper blades.

“He’s spitting up blood. Why is he spitting up blood?” Gil demanded, bristling before he remembered etiquette towards first responder medical teams. 

“I’m fine,” Bright insisted, before he turned his head and wiped red sputum from his chin with the blanket. 

Gil didn’t get his answer. He and Dani headed to JT’s car and the three of them, without discussion, went to Bright’s hospital. The detective team found, well, heard Jessica and Ainsley barking down patient information. JT left with Gil to the precinct to work through their frustration and rage over Watkins. The men recognized their presence at the hospital was not productive when the rape crisis counselor would only admit Dani Powell as police presence for the rape of an omega male.

Jessica was popping one cool blue mint after another, courtesy of Gil. Ainsley had dragged Jessica from her gloomy bedroom.

“For Christ’s sake, Jessica. It’s on your breath. Get some coffee to sober up,” Gil whispered curtly as he shoved the contents of his coat pocket into Jessica’s slack hand.

Malcolm perked up when he saw the familiar wrapped mint.

“Can I have one, Mother?” he asked innocently.

“Please wait until we collect an oral sample,” requested the nurse examiner administering the rape kit. Malcolm was gowned up for the examination, seating on white sheets lining the exam table where he shivered. 

“You’re not going to get much trace evidence on the butcher paper. My clothes, what I wore the last time Watkins attacked me, I couldn’t wear,” said Malcolm. 

“We bagged your blanket. It’s better than nothing.”

“Yes, because I wore nothing,” Malcolm added. His generalized anxiety had him chattering mildly.

Ainsley’s hand throbbed from Jessica’s death grip. Jessica sat with her ankles tucked while Ainsley stood in her Gucci flats. Dani grabbed at Jessica’s other hand when she saw the gel nails Jessica dug into her own arm. Regardless of their different backgrounds, Jessica needed both women to hold her up. Even Dani in her combat boots looked like she wanted out, but she wouldn’t abandon her friend.

Bright cheerily tucked the mint into his right cheek, mindful not to roll it into the molar that he had cracked during labor. The blood that Gil had seen earlier needed to be treated by a dentist for emergency attention to Malcolm’s cracked molar. In short, months without his mouth guard had done a serious number on his teeth, not to mention inadequate calcium in his diet and vitamin D from sunlight when Watkins trapped him underground. Malcolm didn’t feel it when he gave blood samples. 

Malcolm joked when the nurse examiner picked under his nails and clipped a sample of hair from his scalp. The nurse’s comb snarled in his split ends.

“I could use a real spa day and get my hair and nails did. We should all get one together, catch up.” 

“Marvelous idea, sweetheart. I know who can help,” Jessica said.

“This is going to sting. You’re doing great, baby,” said the nurse examiner before they plucked his pubic hair and a strand from his scalp.

Malcolm kept his face under control until the time came for the nurse examiner to photograph and measure the bite mark on his left side. Dani held him and Jessica clutched Ainsley as Malcolm cried like a wounded animal at the nurse examiner lifting his hospital gown to document the months’ old scar. 

“This portion of the exam is for medical personnel and NYPD,” the nurse examiner told Malcolm’s family.

“Let’s visit the baby. We can get food for us. For Malcolm,” coaxed Ainsley, seeing the ice storm in Jessica’s face. “What do you want to eat, Malcolm?”

“Let me know how Joan is. Make sure she’s not lonely without me,” pleaded Malcolm.

“Yes, we will! And what do you want to eat?” Ainsley tried.

Jessica only left because Malcolm wanted cookies. She could do that much for him as his mother.

Dani understood why immediate family were dismissed as the rape crisis counselor surveyed Malcolm for the sequence of events detailing the nightmare which the rapist inflicted on him.

Dani wasn’t new to sitting vigil with family who needed to talk about their rape, but this hurt just as much when she could count on both hands the people she loved who were survivors. And the ones who hadn’t survived, she counted before sleep.

“I would say the previous sexual encounter was within half a day of my going into labor? He cut my clothes off. When he finished, I rolled over and the contractions started. Maybe the sex induced my labor without my amniotic sac rupturing. My legs were chained to the bed which prevented me from ambulating to dilate my cervix.”

Dani grit and bore it for Malcolm’s interview. He felt guilty that she had to be there for him. Malcolm was grateful for her trustworthy presence, how she comforted him, made it easier for Malcolm to give relatively objective details. Watkins death was but a cold comfort to Malcolm, knowing that his rape kit would likely sit in forensics backlog and remain untested along with the others. Rich or poor, he was as helpless as anyone else in the face of violent crime. Malcolm was one of the privileged who witnessed fate closing in on the man who broke him.

Not one bitch pointed out the problematic issue of Malcolm inhaling sweets after an invasive dental procedure. He had a nutritionist, a neurologist, an endocrinologist, and all the maternity nurses mothering him. 

Out of the team of specialists who attended to him, the hardest appointment for Malcolm to endure was the nurse practitioner from OB/GYN. Malcolm was nursing Joan through a nipple shield when the OB/GYN nurse practitioner paid him a visit. She closed the door.

“Hi Malcolm. You’re doing so good. Look how milk drunk your little girl is,” said the nurse practitioner.

“The doula gave me the nipple shield. I’m so grateful that her latch improved,” cooed Malcolm. He felt good about being able to feed his baby. He didn’t mind how she drained him. Sometimes when she fell off his teat, her little froggy mouth kept moving.

“Just tell me the bad news,” said Malcolm. He had noted the nurse practitioner gripping her work laptop, her finger keeping it from shutting completely.

“Oh dang, I guess mothers get a sixth sense, too,” joked the nurse practitioner.

“You were just reading my chart, planning to stick to the facts when you give me bad news,” said Malcolm.

“So what is it? HIV? Herpes? The whole alphabet of Hepatitis? The man who raped me was a necrophiliac,” said Malcolm.

Two quick knocks made Malcolm clutch his baby. 

“Sweet Jesus, I’m so so sorry for what you went through,” said the nurse practitioner, hugging the laptop.

A doctor entered Malcolm’s hospital room. She wore Sesame Street scrubs under her white coat, indicating her pediatric specialty, and her presence scared the shit out of Malcolm.

After a beat, the nurse practitioner told him. “Syphilis. You tested positive for syphilis. I’m mandated to let you know. At this time, you do not require further treatment for this STI. The antibiotics you were prescribed upon admittance are also indicated for acute infectious diseases.”

Fear lanced through Malcolm. “My baby. Oh God. Please. Is she going to be OK?”

“We need you to electronically sign for your daughter’s treatment. I recommend a 10-day course of penicillin G. Fortunately, your daughter doesn’t display any obvious symptoms of congenital syphilis and her neonatal evaluation looks good. But because you’re a confirmed case, through no fault of your own, I’d rather not risk complications of latent syphilis.”

“Oh God,” Malcolm sobbed. “Of course. I’ll sign it immediately.”

“Your chart indicates no penicillin allergy. However, because we don’t have access to the father’s medical history, we can’t discount the risk of an adverse reaction.”

“I understand. The risk is worth the cure, doctor. In this case,” Malcolm said.

“Do you have questions? Before we proceed,” said the pediatrician. The OB/GYN nurse practitioner gave Malcolm tissues.

“Yeah, um, is this why my baby girl hasn’t opened her eyes? Is it in her eyes? Will she be visually impaired?” garbled Malcolm.

The pediatrician smiled. “The bacteria which causes syphilis progresses slowly. Early onset congenital syphilis presents between three to fourteen weeks or five years later, only if left untreated. You have made the courageous decision to nip it in the bud now.”

“Okay. If it’s her personality, that’s alright then,” Malcolm said.

“You’re doing great,” assured the nurse practitioner. “Just by nursing her, you’re setting her up for good physical health.” 

“She’s got a wonderful start in spite of tragic circumstances,” agreed the pediatrician.

Before leaving Malcolm to attend to other beds, the nurse practitioner advised Malcolm to call family.

“Why?” said Malcolm. “Baby’s taken care of.”

The nurse practitioner placed her hands on the shoulders of Malcolm’s gown.

“People underestimate how much STIs damage your mental health. Honestly, the shame and the depression that my patients carry after treatment is so life-ruining. You don’t have to disclose to your family but you need to push back the stigma that you’re ‘dirty’ or a leper. Talk to someone.”

“Okay.”

“Who you gonna call, honey?”

“I don’t wanna call my mother. She’ll totally know something is up,” groaned Malcolm. But he bit the bullet because it wasn’t just himself that he had to think of, not anymore. 

He was unfathomably alone waiting for anyone to appear. Malcolm’s jaw unhinged as soon as Jessica showed up though he pinched his lips into a stern line. Though he ducked his face at the sight of his mother, his hair was up in a bun and he couldn’t hide

“Malcolm,” Jessica said. Her painstakingly made up appearance reminded him of how destroyed he looked. He almost didn’t want her to touch him.

Jessica took his hands at once and Malcolm could finally breathe when he smelled her signature scent. She wore parfum No. 5 but paid up for the original formula with musk procured from live animals.

“My baby. Tell Mother what it is. I can take it,” Jessica said.

No, she couldn’t. But Malcolm couldn’t keep it to himself.

“Watkins made me sick, Mother,” wept Malcolm. “I had an STI and I gave it to my baby.”

Malcolm couldn’t get over it though the pediatrician assured him that the baby had showed no signs of rash, no legions, no conjunctivitis, and her cute little button nose was intact.

“Joan is receiving parenteral drug therapy and she’ll be fine but—” Malcolm was hysterical, barely coherent through wheezing little gasps. “I don’t know much worse this can get. I can’t handle another shock.”

In the end, Malcolm wasn’t able to come down from his panic. Jessica had to call the nurse and Malcolm violently struggled before medical personnel restrained him with nylons and sedated him.

Jessica dozed off fitfully in the visitors chair, stirring when a delivery man entered the room with a lavish vase of lily flowers. He wore a Giants cap and a uniform T-shirt bearing the business name and phone number of a florist. Jessica froze when she saw the surgically precise cut of his beard and the cool gray eyes which flashed blue like a steel blade when he caught her fearful look.

“Quit my job today. Do you think you can wait until visiting hours are over before you notify the authorities?” asked Martin.

“Where is Watkins?” asked Jessica.

“Dead. This time with feeling,” Martin said. “I killed him before Joan fell into my arms. One life for another.”

She thought she distracted him. Jessica lunged for the call button but Martin was quicker. He pinned her to the chair, his arms encircling her waist and bringing his face to her skirt.

“You know that Watkins gave my baby syphilis? I blame you! You let that monster into our lives, into our house, my God, Martin! I hate you! I hate you so much!” Jessica struck the soft of her fist on Martin’s shoulders as she wrapped her ankles around him.

“Jessie,” uttered Martin.

“I should scratch your eyes out, Martin,” spat Jessica. 

Martin nosed between her shaking thighs. Her head tipped back, exposing the water line of her red lipstick as her mouth parted.

“The door’s open!” cried Jessica, urgently panting in her sharp warning.

“Then you better come. I won’t stop,” promised Martin. 

“I can’t. Not like this. I’m terrified,” said Jessica.

“Martin, please,” Jessica pleaded. She closed her eyes, tried to let go with his fingers thrusting past her thong panties, his beard chafing her voluptuous buttocks as he bit down on the lips of her vulva and tongued under the hood of her clitoris.

Malcolm drugged and strapped to his bed obscured any passerby view of Martin tangling up her dress.

“I can force you. Would you like it?” Martin offered.

“Do it. Make me come,” Jessica growled, her lips pulled back, red in her teeth.

Martin commanded her to orgasm. Jessica writhed beneath his thirsty mouth. He drank her up like bourbon, let it soak his beard.

“You’re stunning. I surrender myself to you, you bewitching creature,” Martin said, intoxicated by her essence, how it mingled with her signature scent, exactly as he remembered.

“Nice dress. I love you in green,” added Martin.

“It was a nice dress. I’m burning it,” said Jessica. “And you’re going to burn. As soon as I. Soon as I collect myself.”

Martin pillowed his cheek on her thigh, drinking her in with his predatory gaze as she knocked off the Giants cap and raked her nails through his flattened but impeccably barbered hair.

“Why, Martin? Don’t say it’s for Malcolm. You’re not here for him. The truth, if you’re up to the job.”

“I can shake off my chains, Jessie, but I’ll never be free of you. Your enchantment over me holds fast,” said Martin.

Jessica cleared her throat and pointed at the bathroom connected to Malcolm’s room. “Go and wash up. You can hold your granddaughter before I deal with you.”

“Oh Jessie,” Martin said, her perfume on his lips. “If anyone ends me, I want it to be you.”

* * *

Jessica filed for guardianship of her granddaughter when Malcolm checked into Gotham asylum after being diagnosed with postpartum depression. For his baby’s sake, Malcolm submitted to first-rate care which included daily monitoring while psychiatric teams tailored his drug therapy regimen using formularies approved for nursing omegas. Though Malcolm could not regularly breastfeed his daughter Joan, the private facility scheduled his therapy sessions around the times when Malcolm pumped his breasts for milk in the safety of his private room. 

Their chauffeur, Adolpho, shuttled Jessica and her granddaughter to and from the asylum almost every day. Gil stopped by twice a week, in order to spend one-on-one time with Malcolm as well as to make a fool of himself over the baby while Jessica fussed at Malcolm.

Eventually, Malcolm was discharged to outpatient services. He sported a full grown beard, unable to cope with the facility's restrictions on razors and supervised shaving. He was forced to upgrade to an appropriately qualified psychiatrist Dr. Bedelia de Maurier (yes, Malcolm had very French tastes in his discernment of mental health counselors) in the ongoing muddle of self-preservation. Malcolm was sad that he could no longer visit Dr. Gabrielle for counseling, but assured Dr. Gabrielle that his daughter would be a likely client in the foreseeable future. 

In the mean time, Jessica sold the Whitly murder house to the only taker, an eccentric gentleman who was notorious for bidding on macabre relics such as one scorched prototype of the electric chair designed by Edison. Jessica purchased a house with three levels renovated into independent units. She inhabited the first level, rented out the third level, and moved her son Malcolm in the middle. Malcolm recognized his enviable set up, lavishly lodged with baby girl and his loyal lady bird. Ainsley sacrificed her easy work commute to live a few blocks from her family.

Malcolm didn't know that he was home until he walked through the new apartment with Joan in his arms. He watched his baby's face as her little eyes darted along a mounted glaive ringed by ninja throwing stars and a sickled blade golden like a crescent moon. His six axes and two medals failed to impress.

Little hands reached for the bird cage. Malcolm only put her baby mitts on when she slept to stop her from scratching her cheeks; he adored the sight of her itty bitty fingers. Baby's head lulled side to side as she heard a new sound coming from a new friend. Though he had come home, Malcolm hadn't taken Sunshine out of the cage.

"Hold on, baby," Malcolm said. He placed Joan in the forward facing infant carrier and strapped her to his chest.

If it were someone else's baby, Malcolm would've put the newborn on his hip and popped opened the cage regardless of the potential mayhem to ensue.

"Hello, Sunshine. Goodbye blues. Look who your Mommy brought home to you," cooed Malcolm.

He lifted Sunshine to his cheek and let her flip out at his dead ends. A few of his strands tickled the top of his feet when Sunshine snipped at the dry hairs.

"I know, I know, I need a cut. Thanks for your concern," said Malcolm, chuckling.

His chin pressed his baby's soft head, careful not to rub too much because her skin was especially sensitive to beard burn.

With both arms freed up , Malcolm allowed Sunshine to perch on his finger while his other hand hovered near Joan's soft spot, ready to shield her.

But he needn't have worried because Sunshine was his loyal lady bird. Sunshine greeted the newest Whitly with a song of her own.

In fact, Malcolm needed to protect Sunshine from Joan's sharp nails and tight fists. Joan was too little to control her tensile strength. Malcolm marveled at seeing the two of them with his own eyes, liberated from his cage, out of John's chains, and freed from John's love.

Malcolm spent all day snapping photos of Joan reclined on safety pillows with Sunshine photo bombing. He teased Ainsley by sending her short baby videos while she worked.

Malcolm was glad to be at home with bird in hand, baby at his breast, and a song in his heart.

* * *

Malcolm sat up in bed, his hand on the bassinet at his bedside. Baby girl shuddered a little booty shaking breath in her sleep. Malcolm relaxed from touching her limp and damp hair strands and lightly pressing her sweaty neck.

He still had that creeping sense that he was watched.

John loomed at the foot of his queen sized mattress. Malcolm was paralyzed as though his legs were chained.

“She needs a father,” said John.

“Baby’s got me,” said Malcolm.

Since his imprisonment by John, Malcolm hadn’t used his sleep restraints to cuff his arms. The restraints were in place but he tucked the cuffs out of sight more often than not. However, Malcolm would strap them on again as a precaution when he relapsed into night terrors. 

Malcolm checked the time on his phone and saw that Gil had texted him about going for a walk in the park late afternoon. Malcolm responded with a thumbs up emoji.

He swallowed when Gil quickly responded.

<<Do you want to talk?>> read Gil’s text.

Malcolm stared until his phone screen lit up with an incoming call.

“Gil, oh my God,” said Malcolm. He curled his legs into his pounding chest.

“What’s got you awake, Bright?”

“Dreams,” said Malcolm. John sat on the bed. “My dreams are kind of like a CG 3D movie.”

“Who’s with you, Bright?”

“Baby. Nanny. And um.” Malcolm stopped talking before he blurted “John.”

“Dang it Bright. What are you hiding? Talk to me.”

“Tell him what really happened to me,” said John. He moved quickly, coming for Malcolm.

Malcolm scuttled until his back shook the headboard, a scared cry knocked out of him. Last time when John had visited, he had flipped his axe handle before whacking the blade at Malcolm's throat, and fucked down Malcolm's gaped neck, lifting Malcolm's severed head by its candy scented pretty hair.

Gil picked up on his distress. “Malcolm, I can be there in fifteen. What is it?”

Malcolm refused before ending the call. “No!! No. We talk at the park, Gil. I’ll tell you then.”

Malcolm arose from bed and stretched in easy poses. He also practiced tai chi stances to relieve his back pain and tight pelvis. His mother had forced him to see a chiropractor about readjusting his spine after having his baby. The chiropractic sessions were a pain but the weekly sessions to realign his spine paid off when he didn’t have to take relaxants for deep muscle cramps caused by the extended curvature of his abdomen. Malcolm also added tai chi to his daily exercise to prevent stress from undoing the chiropractic treatments.

He needed tai chi to meditate when the black hole followed him from the underground, threatening to take away all the love he had for his baby girl. Malcolm wrestled with the emptiness, wondering if he could love her when he never wanted her. When the few emotions he recognized told him that he made a mistake keeping her with him. 

“Nanny, can you take Joan? It’s not a good morning,” Malcolm begged, opening the black hole of his mouth.

“Right away, liebling. Lucky me! A butter sweet for breakfast,” she cooed. Nanny popped out the bassinet and carried away Joan. Though much of Nanny’s blond hair had gone white, she had a stout constitution that made her stronger than a bull. As a very capable German minder, she dwarfed Malcolm in breadth and height. Yet any time she touched Malcolm, her touch was surprisingly light handed.

Malcolm felt a pulling at his left side watching Joan go, but he needed an hour to sit in a bathtub, soaping away John’s fingers on him, shave his chin stubble, blow dry his hair, line his eyes with black clay paint liner, pick out his own clothes, just do anything with himself to muster up an appetite to eat. He no longer nursed, a Calorie demanding process that once motivated Malcolm to take regular meals.

Yet Malcolm still needed to eat. He met his weight trainer three times per week for core training and to gently peel off the baby fat. He wasn’t nearly anywhere fit as he was before the kidnapping, but he could leave the house without binding his chest. He was seeing results without destabilizing his moods with androgen replacement therapy. He would always have a little paunch from Joan and he tried to be grateful for it.

Malcolm chose to wear a long maroon skirt with an asymmetrical hem that fluttered like a cape around his black leggings. He tucked in his navy blue button up, secured his charcoal waistcoat, and pulled on a loose black blazer patterned with silver florals. His hair was cut to a chin length bob, styled blond at the ends. His left eye wasn’t as artfully lined as his right eye but he didn’t want to be late.

Gil often met with Malcolm and the baby in the park. Many times, Gil commandeered the large stroller while taking in the rare sight of Malcolm shoving down a sandwich wrap. After being trapped underground with few trips outside, Malcolm jumped on any reason to freely stroll outdoors. Though Gil could see John’s influence on Malcolm, he was grateful that they could have these walks in the park. Malcolm continued to dress effeminately in modest clothes, spurning the fitted suits which flaunted his shape. Gil sincerely didn’t care whether Malcolm adhered to either gender mode, not when Malcolm bared his true thoughts.

On their first walk together, Malcolm had apologized to Gil.

“For what?” Gil asked. “You did not choose to go with Watkins.”

“I didn’t call for backup. I left Shannon’s side to snoop; he had no one watching his back when John murdered him. Or what if I had called you and John had hurt _you_? I couldn’t lose you,” despaired Malcolm.

“Stop. You’ll end up in the psych ward chasing down your hypotheticals,” said Gil.

Another time, Malcolm had apologized to Gil all over again.

“For what?” Gil asked in the same old refrain. “Because you’re still sucking in air?”

“Because my father escaped,” said Malcolm.

Gil pinched the bridge of his nose. “I expressly told your family not to. Christ.”

“I needed to know,” Malcolm insisted. They stopped at a bench. Malcolm couldn’t sit for too long without Joan fussing out of boredom. Gil benched himself, noticing that Malcolm relaxed when he did so.

“You let him out of his cage to find me,” said Malcolm.

“Officially, Special Agent Swanson approved his temporary leave to ascertain yours and Watkins’s whereabouts,” countered Gil.

“Gil, you don’t understand. I had no knowledge of my father’s escape. I told Dani and the crisis counselor that John was there when I had Joan. That would’ve explained who helped me through the labor,” said Malcolm.

Malcolm hugged Joan closer to himself and kissed the sparse blond hairs on her big head.

“I thought I hallucinated my father showing up and delivering Joan. I thought I was having an elaborate delusion. But what I recollect must be the actual series of events. My father attacked John and poisoned him with deadly neurotoxins. John was there, dying. He was not in any condition to help me. Father attended to me and the baby.”

“And Watkins?” Gil added.

“Watkins lived to hear his daughter before Father took him away. I’m sorry because I should have reported this. You might have caught The Surgeon. He could be in Canada,” said Malcolm.

“Not on an expired fake passport,” said Gil, snorting. “Back then, a driver’s license would’ve got him through. Martin remains on American soil, I’m sure of it.”

“But what I want to know is why you doubted yourself that badly. You let them administer a rape kit on you, Bright, after you saw with your own eyes that John was dying,” said Gil.

“A number of factors,” answered Malcolm. “The chemical imbalance of my brain without my benzos triggered intense dreams. I talked to people when John left me alone for days with just enough chain for me to go to the bathroom. Not to mention John gave me—”

Malcolm bit his lip.

“What?” asked Gil. “What did John do to you?”

“He gave me a venereal disease, Gil,” said Malcolm. He choked down a cry. Gil caught himself reaching for Malcolm and stopped himself, remembering in the nick of time not to just grab a survivor.

“This particular STI can impact your neuropsychological health and change your behavior. John had me for such a long time. The neurologist confirms that I suffered brain damage either from the seizures I had when I went cold turkey on my meds or it could be from the STI in its secondary stage. I noted differences when I viewed the images of my brain scan and compared them to a previous scan from a head injury I sustained as a Federal agent. Fortunately, neither my motor functions nor cognitives deteriorated. I’ll never know how much of my personality is permanently altered or if I’ll just hallucinate when my brain tics.”

“I don’t know how soon I can get back to work,” concluded Malcolm. “Mother and Nanny would care for Joan if I were to work another day job. But I just see myself sitting at a desk, tired by the futility of going through the motions.”

“If you were to give me my job back today, Gil, I wouldn’t deliver. I’m useless.”

“Malcolm. I’m not here to use you,” said Gil. He opened his mouth, his throat tight. “I want to be here for you because I—”

While Gil struggled for words, Joan started wailing.

“Crap, it’s a diaper blowout. Gil, I have to leave. I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say sorry over shit,” Gil said deadpan. The sun came out of the clouds when Malcolm smiled.

They were meeting again the day after Gil heard Malcolm freaking out over the phone. The trees in the park were either skeletal without their foliage or richly hued in fiery colors. Joan was nearly twelve months old. 

“So what happened this morning?” Gil asked, diving right into Malcolm’s issues and a very tall cup of coffee.

“John visited,” said Malcolm.

“Watkins who is dead… visited you,” repeated Gil.

“Yes,” answered Malcolm. His eyes were amazingly vivid under the autumn sky canopied with splendorous colors. The beautiful shapes of his eyes were subtly enhanced by swooping inked lines.

Gil was close enough to smell Malcolm’s fragrant soap, bright and punchy like candy.

“Did you see him?” asked Gil.

“I saw him, heard him,” he said.

“Christ. No wonder you sounded so scared. I had my keys in my hand. You know I would have,” Gil began.

“Yes. You would’ve came running. I can’t let you do that, Gil,” said Malcolm. He tucked in his shoulders, made himself smaller.

“I shouldn’t need you,” declared Malcolm.

“Is this why I only get to see you in this same spot, Bright? Why can’t I take you to dinner or bring takeout?” Gil stepped up his pace to get ahead of Malcolm. He planted his leather shoes firmly in Malcolm’s path.

“It wouldn’t just be me, Gil. Joan and I would depend on you if I let it happen too much.”

Malcolm licked his lips, his lids flickering closed as he gathered his thoughts. 

“Last night, John showed up and told me that my baby needs a father. As if he gets a fucking say in the matter.” Malcolm’s eyes were soft. “She needs two parents. I don’t have an alpha. And I’m not looking.”

“I'll be the dad. She gets to keep you. She would have both,” Gil said.

“Gil, this works if we loved each other, like partners who are in love.”

Malcolm shook his head. “You don't touch me, Gil. Not after I came back.”

Gil skimmed the back of Malcolm's neck, like a man carefully stoking a little flame that he feared extinguishing. Malcolm shivered so hard that Gil withdrew his touch immediately.

“I've wanted to do that,” Gil said. He let his longing show through.

“What about if you and my mother adopted the baby together? You two had something. If you wanted to adopt her, there isn't a better man I could think of.”

“Your mother had you two. I had a job to do,” Gil said. His skin tingled from how intensely Malcolm scrutinized him, knowing that if he lied, Malcolm’s amazing eyes would catch him out.

“This isn't your job or your problem,” said Malcolm.

“I want it to be my problem. Don't you get it, Bright? Did you forget when I went to see you? When Jessica had baby girl and neither of them were around? I wanted to be there for you. You, then your baby, and then your family. I showed up for you. You're the behavior expert. Figure it out,” said Gil, exasperated.

“You desire me, the way an alpha pants after an omega. You would claim me the next heat that comes. You would knot me and make me yours,” Malcolm said, his tone deepening as he voiced his instinctive read on their dynamics. He touched the back of his neck where he felt Gil’s fingers.

Gil watched Malcolm's every move, swallowed hard from the sensuous way that Malcolm absently soothed himself.

“You've got me down pat,” Gil said. “But what do you want, Malcolm?”

“How far am I permitted to take this?” challenged Malcolm, removing his hand from the baby stroller. He stepped in-between Gil’s shoes, their chests almost brushing. He was running hot from how much desire radiated in his body simply from Gil’s closeness.

“How far do you want to be permitted to take it?” Gil quipped. His fingers stroked the mound of his thumbs, his arms stiff as he resisted the impulse to crush Malcolm to himself and never let go.

“All of it. I want your knot. Hold me down, knot my insides. I want you in my soul filling me up. I want our love child growing in me. Will you breed me, Daddy?” Malcolm told Gil exactly what he needed to hear.

Malcolm dodged, side stepping Gil’s hand. 

“If you can't, then I proceed with alternate plans. My daughter gets to have a family. You can go your way while I do me.” He sounded too calm; his cool tone angered Gil.

“Oh no the hell you don't! Long as I live, I won’t leave you alone. I made a huge mistake when I let you go to do your own thing. You need me to do you. You need daddy,” Gil said. He made his decision.

A section of hair covered Malcolm’s eye as he looked up to Gil quite vulnerably.

“I do. I can't-- Ngk!”

Gil gripped the back of his neck, pinching a bit to make the omega behave, and he relished the scorching collision of their lips and teeth. He fully captured Malcolm in his arms, not even letting Malcolm stand on his own strength. Someone had broken Malcolm and Gil gathered to himself every piece of Malcolm to love and to cherish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gobs it's been almost a month. ONE MORE CHAPTER after this.
> 
> a;fdajdsvzdjagzvbxkvdsfv kxn


	4. Beg for forgiveness

Gil did not require encouragement to leave the precinct and kick off his vacation. He was tired of all these high profile murders literally blowing up in his face. His carry-on luggage was stowed in the Le Mans. Gil planned to have lunch with Malcolm, Jessica, and baby Joan. Then Adolpho, the Whitly family's chauffeur, would drop off Gil and Malcolm for their flight.

The Whitlys reserved a table at an establishment which offered high tea. Gil strode past many round tables set with charming cups and sandwich and cake trays. Jessica was spooning mashed greens into Joan’s mouth. As one who preferred to nibble toes, Joan was liberating herself from knit socks. A young man stood from the lunch table and turned to Gil when Jessica waved. Dressed in a slim cut white suit with thin navy pinstripes, with his brown hair swept back, and short whiskers flecking his upper lip and his chin, Malcolm looked so much like himself that Gil’s stomach flipped.

Gil smiled wide before he folded around Malcolm in a hug.

“Hello stranger,” Gil managed. He kissed behind Malcolm’s ear and palmed at familiar brown layers he hadn’t touched for awhile. Malcolm’s hair had grown like weeds on cracked pavement. Now his coif shined like fertile and brown earth.

“I like your look, kid.”

“Thanks. I just washed my hair,” quipped Malcolm.

“The suit was my idea. You’re quite welcome,” bragged Jessica. She smirked into her mimosa when she caught Gil inspecting Malcolm’s white pinstripes from behind.

“She won’t let me hold my own baby,” said Malcolm.

“White suit, drooling baby. I don’t think so,” said Jessica.

“I won’t see her for two weeks!” Malcolm complained.

Gil was also drooling over the white suit. He had no idea what he ate as he maxed out his skills in the art of subtle appreciation.

Jessica held out the baby for Malcolm to kiss before taking off.

Malcolm was swiping through his third book when their plane landed. Gil had dozed off with their hands joined. The light which filtered through the shaded windows illuminated Gil’s full head of hair. Malcolm pushed aside his melancholic ruminations when Gil kissed at his fingers before exiting with their carry-ons.

No ubers or lyfts were available to them. Malcolm stayed with their luggage while Gil approached the convoy of large black vans stationed along their terminal. The valet, a woman, sporting a decal vest and a clipboard, assisted Gil in clipped English before Gil busted out his Spanish. Once Gil showed her the address of their final destination on his cell phone, the valet ripped off a stub with handwritten fare.

The heat wasn’t too bad compared to the country’s reputed extremes. Malcolm loosened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows while they waited in the humidity.

The black van looped through airport traffic before exiting onto a less congested interstate. Malcolm smiled at Gil when he spotted the first palm tree. They needed to wait on wi-fi access to message their families and confirm safe arrival. The driver asked Gil not to lower the windows. Malcolm was happy for the cool, dry air that blew through the van’s interior.

Familiar American brand hotels gave way to billboards and then business centers, a couple shopping plazas, and then closely spaced houses vividly painted in splashy hues of random colors yellow, pink, red. None of the houses exceeded two stories. Without any man made obstructions, they could see the volcano draped in greenery shadowed by passing cumulus clouds.

The driver’s music play list ranged from música tropical with swinging brass and devilish electronic twangs to reggaeton pulsing drum beats and also to American billboard hits that Malcolm mouthed the lyrics to. The view from the van windows only interested Malcolm when he could see the goats.

The shoulders of Malcolm’s suit swayed as his body moved to the music. His white shirt was unbuttoned and Gil caught glimpses of his collarbone. Malcolm perched his calf over his knee, jiggling his nude pink dress shoes.

“Stop fidgeting.” Gil’s hand closed over Malcolm’s calf, his thumb nestling into the dip of Malcolm’s ankle.

“Relax,” said Gil. He stared into Malcolm’s blue eyes as he stroked every bared inch of leg that he could get his fingers on.

Malcolm hummed. “Not my strong suit.”

A mischievous look brightened his features as he laced his fingers behind his hair, the hem of his shirt coming loose from his thin black belt and riding up. Malcolm was gratified when Gil’s eyes flicked to his exposed middle. Then Malcolm remembered the stretch marks and he hastily tugged down the lapels of his pinstripe jacket.

Gil caught the shameful look and he cupped Malcolm’s cheek.

“You’re amazing, Bright.”

“Gil, why couldn’t we have done this sooner? When I had my rockin’ bod,” said Malcolm.

“Well, if I went for you in my prime, Jackie woulda killed my ass,” said Gil.

“Do you still remember her barbed baseball bat?” Malcolm inquired.

“Duh. That was her Barbie,” said Gil.

Another smile lit up Malcolm’s face and uplifted his eyes. “I remember the pink lips that Jackie had on that old thing. It was a sticker of big pink lips?”

The lines around Gil's mouth deepened. "For the worst good night kiss of your life."

Once they blew past acres of vineyards and the thinned outskirts of a tropical forest, the driver interrupted their conversation for further directions to their vacation rental.

Villa Junipero was an estate that was accessible by a mile long driveway. The private property boasted a luxurious house, an extensive walled-in garden which included a private pool, a barn with a pair of horses and several trained dogs, and fruit orchards populated by avocado and mango trees.

In short, they owed Jessica big time for the hook up.

“Welcome to Junipero! I’m Kelly, the caretaker of this gorgeous villa!” She was an old and dark Spanish woman with a small mole near her red lips.

“You’re American,” blurted Malcolm.

Another woman, a crone really, sat in a wheelchair. She was a pasty woman with snow white hair all the way down to her roots. Her deeply lined and crinkled skin was covered in fine, white fuzz. Her fingers twitched over a wired console installed on her wheelchair. A female electronic voice spoke for her, in the Queen’s English.

 _No shit, Sherlock._ Her word choice belied her static and palsied face.

“Charming,” said Malcolm. “And who might you be?”

_Yorkie. I’m the hot one._

“Everything that the sun touches belongs to Yorkie. Meaning, she owns this establishment,” explained Kelly.

_That includes Kelly. I’ve gone through considerable trouble to wife this individual. Mind how you speak to her. Any issue you report to Kelly is as good as airing your grievances to me._

Yorkie circled her motorized chair about face and whirred in a direction staunchly away from them.

“You are very, very welcome here. Let's get you to your rooms,” said Kelly.

"We recently had visitors who were more trouble than they were worth. Yorkie's got a long memory. This villa is great. Give us a chance," said Kelly.

“We love it here,” Gil assured her.

"Five stars," Malcolm added, head swiveling in appreciation.

* * *

Though Malcolm had lived much of his life in an opulently marbled house as spacious as a palace, he was enamored with the natural and harmonious design of Villa Junipero. 

Malcolm’s childhood home was heavily influenced by Regency era architecture recognizable by large white exterior stones staggered in staccato fashion, made ostentatious by symmetrical archways and staggering ornamental columns like the grooved pilasters of Grecian temples. After considerable renovations following Dr. Whitly’ arrest, the innards of the Whitly house were sanitized and rearranged to palatable domestic nooks. But with the house itself built on the foundations of the classics, an ode to imitators of the ancients, Malcolm tread carefully because he and his family were walled up alive in a mausoleum.

The villa was larger than the old Whitly townhouse in Manhattan but somehow radiated warmth. All that sunlit wood beautified the expansive dimensions of the villa, from the dark reddish-brown floors to the medium brown wood framing their windows into paradise, to the flecked tropical hardwood decking their private balcony. The counter top around the double sink in their adjoining bathroom was also composed of solid rosy wood, thickly cut, smoothly hewed, the bold wood grain as artful as veined marble. 

Yet all that varnished lumber competed with vividly shifting green mosaics of fanned palm leaves, ferns, broad banana leaves, red-veined caladiums, split leaf philodendrons grooved like rib bones. Many of the interior decorative tables, end pieces, were alighted by dusky bird of paradise flowers in glass jars of dark, rich, fertile soil.

Malcolm didn’t get a chance to familiarize himself with their room when he initially stepped in. Once Kelly the caretaker ushered them through the door and quit their company, Gil backed him into a gleaming white wall. The giant and dense tigerwood door closed by sheer momentum on black iron hinges. Their carry-ons toppled sideways.

Malcolm immediately grabbed at both of Gil’s serratus anterior muscles situated beneath his underarms and adjacent to his pecs. Gil had both hands on Malcolm’s face. 

“What’s up, Gil? You look like you’re seeing a ghost,” said Malcolm, cocking his head. 

“You ever see a dream walking, kid?” His fingers splayed into Malcolm's hair, cradling Malcolm's jaw.

"I've missed you," said Gil. 

Gil's brows drew into anguished lines, pain welling up in the shining depths of his eyes. His arms banded around Malcolm's upper back, chest expanding and collapsing as though he hadn't breathed for months. He soaked up warmth from Malcolm's closeness and the florals from Malcolm's silken hair.

Gil smiled through misty eyes when Malcolm's soft and full lips pressed his face many, many times. 

"Talk to me, Bright. You don't speak up nearly as much," said Gil. "Can't believe I'm saying this, but I missed your ranting and raving. I'm not having to cut you off."

Fury darkened Gil's expression. "And I have some guesses on why."

Malcolm rubbed at Gil's chest and along the length of his back.

"When you're ready, I need to hear you more, baby," said Gil. 

Malcolm's lips quirked wryly. "John didn't exactly keep me around for my conversation."

"Damn it, Malcolm. That's not fucking alright," he growled.

From the few occasions when Gil had undivided time with Malcolm, there was a discomforting emptiness that his ears registered, from how little Malcolm said. While Malcolm had not gone mute like he did as a child, Gil fumed over how many of Malcolm's words were stolen away.

"How about we call home? I want to talk to Joan," said Malcolm.

Malcolm sat on a cushioned bench and poked his exhausted face out of the window, their view of paradise. Gil set up Malcolm's sleep restraints and piled their clothes on cedar shelves. Gil was careful to zip every pocket of their carry-ons before stowing them off of the floor, not wanting any creepin' stow aways on their return flight. Giving himself something to do while he keyed into Malcolm giggling over Joan's almost sentences and then Malcolm describing their journey to his mother.

Unable to resist the sound of Malcolm's chirping, Gil sidled up to the cushioned wood bench, their bodies gently twisted and Gil's fingers laced over Malcolm's lower abdomen. Malcolm touched his hair while Gil kissed Malcolm's neck.

"Don't you dare waste the daylight reading your books," fussed Jessica.

"I'll keep our boy busy, Jessica. We'll ride some horses on a jungle trail. Maybe we'll hare off to the beach. Check out the night life. Make him do the conga."

"No conga line," objected Malcolm

"I would pay big money to get footage of Malcolm jumping into a conga line," said Jessica, after a beat.

"Not happening!" said Malcolm.

"You've got to shake it. You're on vacation," said Jessica. "Gil, you get him drunk. Very, very drunk."

"I'd rather tango with an anaconda," said Malcolm.

"You know, I blame myself for letting you have all those pet snakes when you were so little and impressionable. That must be why you prefer--"

"Mother! That has no bearing on who I choose to be with!" said Malcolm, raising his voice. 

He dove into a rambling lecture on secondary pubescent development in omegas and launched into a tangential discourse on alphas. Gil's brows raised as he learned alpha things that he himself didn't know about. It just figured that it would be Malcolm's mother who needled him into talking.

Gil nosed into Malcolm's shoulder, laughing and finally relaxing as he held the most beautiful person ever in their dapper white suit.

* * *

Gil went to the bathroom, closing the door. He glimpsed an oceanic mural laid into the goldenrod and aquamarine stonework of the villa’s courtyard. Broad rosy flat tiles felt cool beneath his feet as he admired the villa’s layout from casement windows. Much of their bathroom was tiled a pastel yellow-green in an avocado color scheme. The tiles along the floor and between walls were forest green. 

The shower was designed with a golden disk with drain holes inside small square inch tile green and yellow squares arranged into a halved avocado slice. While the freestanding shower was present, Gil’s eye was drawn to the hollowed out wood tub. His fingertips roved the inside of the tub, uneven like someone took a melon baller and scooped. He could smell the lumber and notes of citric oil. If he got in first and pulled Malcolm in, there would be just enough space to—

“Can I come in?” asked Malcolm, knocking. Gil washed his hands before opening up.

Malcolm had changed into light wash denim jeans, snake skin belt and a light pink tank top. He was dousing himself with citronella, arms lifted, hairs waxed away. Gil twitched in his khakis, wondering where else Malcolm groomed himself. He stroked Malcolm’s cheeks when Malcolm added a brimmed hat to his ensemble.

After Gil pulled on gym pants and a thin V-neck, the both of them headed to the brown barn which boasted one mural of giant white blossoms shaded with light blue. Kelly the caretaker was already in the barn with a farm hand, handling what looked to be Spanish bred horses.

“Radios are included with your packs in case you end up where you shouldn’t be. Don’t touch or pick up the frogs. If you do, well, your end will be swift, my dears,” Kelly warned.

The passing tour of the villa onward to a rain forest trail revealed the many mango and avocado trees grown on the farm. Birdsong played all around as though it were coming from the trees, the sky, and the ground. 

Malcolm was all dimples as their horses plodded a well loved trail. Every 30 minutes, their nature guide would stop them and indicate distance traveled before cheerily informing them of the animals and poisonous botanicals that could kill them 600 times over.

Gil watched his companion sigh happily over the morbid turn of discussion that their innocent nature exploration had taken.

“Many of these compounds aren’t readily identified by a toxicology screen. You’d have to look for concentrations of their metabolic byproducts that only appear abnormal in healthy Caucasian males of average BMI ranges,” said Malcolm.

Their guide stayed with them for the return journey from the rain forest trail. Malcolm played a game of bird spotting, shouting in Latin for each pretty thing on wings. 

His brows drew together, eyes staring at a budgie with the sky on its breast, cotton white wings aflutter like passing clouds.

“Malcolm?” Gil called. He followed Malcolm’s gaze, saw nothing besides a gray bird. “Bad memories?”

“It’s fine,” said Malcolm, withdrawn and pale. “Let’s head back.”

Once Gil and Malcolm were on the villa’s premises, Malcolm turned to Gil. “Beat you to that tree line 500 feet ahead!”

As their horses were well past their racing years, they were nowhere near breakneck speed. Still, Gil was proud of his horse for throwing the competition with a surprising repartee of whinnying that distracted Malcolm’s horse.

“So about my winning. How do you want to settle this, Bright?” Gil asked. They were alone on their horses with the sun blazing overhead.

“It’s a hot day. I want to think it over and dip my toes in a pool,” answered Malcolm.

The pool was not in the courtyard of the villa. Instead, a freshwater pool was a couple kilometers from the villa. Gil almost missed the location which was tucked away within a low stone wall completely overgrown by large ferns and tropical trees which were much shorter than the outskirts of the rain forest which bordered Junipero.

Gil wondered how Malcolm spotted the enclosed pool. When Gil inspected the trees, he noticed the tree limbs were pruned. None of the boughs arched into the soil. As they approached the private pool, they both looked at each other, hearing the splash of water simultaneously.

Malcolm tied his horse’s bridle on a low branch, just steps from the pool’s edge. The horse drank from the waters. Gil secured his horse to the trunk of a young tree. His eyes were drawn to the sandy boulders pebbled with small smooth stones as bright as ocean coral. The pool water was somehow cascading from between the largest boulders, gushing from at least 8 feet high.

Malcolm waded towards a sunny spot warming the boulders. Gil did a double take, looked at Malcolm’s horse, saw jeans and Malcolm’s brimmed hat rolled up and tucked through the leather strap on the saddle pack.

He ranted excitedly. “Do you know what this is?! Gil! It’s an artificial freshwater pool! In lieu of chemical treatments, gravel beds with micro flora contain algae growth. Plants such as pondweed and water lilies deal with unwanted nitrates and ammonium inside the water that gets pumped through biological filters and UV filters!”

"I adore this set up. The property owner contracted with an ingenious landscape architect! They must have installed additional pumps to create the waterfall in the swim zone!" Malcolm exclaimed. 

"Water's warm," purred Malcolm, stretching his arms to heaven. The water soothed the muscles in his legs and hips which were sore from horseback riding.

"That's the point of a tropical vacation. You get into stuff instead of reading it," Gil called out. He turned a stern eye on their horses, confirmed that they remained tethered while they innocently lapped at the clear waters.

Malcolm was more pale than what was healthy. The sunlight washed him out as he waded toward the stones which formed a waterfall cascading several feet. Sunlight rippled along the surface of the water with his steps, lapped at his naked skin, as Malcolm immersed himself waist high.

Malcolm turned his head and aimed his own dazzling smile at Gil. His hair darkened, eyes brimming, as he stood under the waterfall letting it soak him.

Water beaded on his shoulders, glimmering like crystal. Gil joined him in the water, planting a small kiss on the nape of Malcolm's neck. Each droplet tasted crisp and good, freshly lapped from aroused flesh. Gil took Malcolm in hand.

"Gil!" Malcolm gasped. "Someone could see us!"

"We're on private property. Where I can touch you very privately."

The waves caressing Malcolm’s belly felt like several mouths warming him all over, as Gil's hand stroked him up and sunny waters trickled down the head of his cock. The heavy breeze gentled on him like a lover’s breath.

Gil drew Malcolm nearer.

“What is it?” Gil asked when Malcolm hesitated, his arms bunched close to his sides, palms pressed to his lower abdomen concealed by the verdant waters.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

Gil tapped the younger man’s chin.

“You can tell me. If we need to stop, we stop. All bets are off.”

“You can see where my dermis cracked. The breakage is quite visible because I couldn’t lotion them with cocoa butter every day.”

Malcolm laughed as he clutched himself.

“And the stretch marks aren’t the worst. You’re going to see where he forced his claim, where he marked me.”

“The most beautiful woman I knew had some battle scars herself,” Gil said.

Gil looked old then, the shadow of death drooping his mouth, sinking his eyes, taking Malcolm back to the darkest hour of Gil’s life. Malcolm let go of his scars and his pain so he could make room for Gil. They filled each other’s arms.

“Let me see you, Bright. I want to love you. I swear, I will.”

“I know. But I can’t feel my body. Help me. My hands. I want to show you but I can’t put my arms down,” Malcolm said, gasping.

Malcolm said his name. Twice.

Gil laced his fingers through Malcolm’s and he pulled his arms away from his own body, letting Malcolm see him, too. Malcolm spread for him like a bird after being grounded for a long winter.

Gil let go of Malcolm’s right hand. He pressed Malcolm’s hand to an old burn wound which stretched a few inches in diameter on his lower left side.

“Gil! When did—”

“Door knob. Whole place on fire. I carried Jackie out of our high rise but…”

Malcolm kept quiet though he knew the facts.

“… but it wasn’t soon enough. She fell asleep watching TV on the couch. I went to bed. Jackie closed our door so that her show wouldn’t wake me up. That’s what saved my life. All I could do for her was—”

Gil tucked his lips, cheeks dripping, his ears and nose and eyelids singed red.

“I got her out just to say a proper goodbye.”

“She looked good, Gil. When I saw her,” said Malcolm.

“Least I could do. She mighta haunted my ass if I let her look like crap at her own funeral.”

“No, she wouldn’t have, Gil. She loved you. She cared for you that night. Why you’re here with me now. I’m so thankful to Jackie.”

“We both owe her. Owned both of our sorry asses,” said Gil.

Malcolm’s laugh cut off when Gil knelt before him, up to his chest in the water. Gil lost balance from the gorgeously vibrant and colorful pebbles lining the bottom of the swim zone and he wrapped his right arm around Malcolm. Malcolm squeezed the hand joined to Gil’s, feeling vertigo from the sensation of standing at such great heights with a man like Gil purposely lowering himself at Malcolm’s feet.

Gil kissed at the mark and put his fingers around Malcolm’s hard little prick. His beard hairs stroked along Malcolm’s sensitive areas before Gil’s mouth sealed in Malcolm.

“Gil,” Malcolm groaned from inside his lover’s heat.

Malcolm wasn’t very long but he looked like a crafted piece of art with his skin shining like ivory. Gil was blinded in all that beauty. He closed his eyes and opened his heart, letting pleasure from his lips and tongue warm Malcolm’s flesh. Gil’s arm, the one with the tan line from his watch, enveloped the cool skin of Malcolm’s dripping buttocks. Gil anchored Malcolm, let the younger man root deeper into him, clinging like a dry vine blooming under a gentle breath of life.

Gil was acquiring an addiction to how Malcolm tasted. He already craved the sight of Malcolm on the daily. But with his senses confirming that Malcolm was a real person fucking him, Gil was completely done for.

Malcolm’s prick was like white satin, naturally rouged at his tip and his tidy little balls were similarly blushed like ripened engorged strawberries. Gil tightened his fingers where he clutched Malcolm’s hand, made sure he could feel Malcolm’s pulse on his wrist. The dainty size of Malcolm’s prick, typical of omega men, fit perfectly with enough girth to feel wonderful, but Malcolm wasn’t too big that Gil ever lost control with Malcolm helplessly jerking at the back of Gil’s throat. 

Gil was feeding off of Malcolm’s shocked expressions. Gil could see the crowns of Malcolm’s back teeth from the lusty cries spilling from Malcolm’s gaped mouth.

Malcolm’s eyes were infinite and unclouded like the blue canopy of sky endless over their passion play.

Malcolm climaxed, limbs going everywhere like a tree struck by lightning. He found purchase against the sandy boulders, arching back, clinging like wet silk. He screamed from Gil fingering his omega cunt while Gil licked and sucked at his nipples, kissed his skin striped from breeding.

Gil was still thirsty when Malcolm came from Gil’s tongue flicking his cunt and kneading his balls. Gil’s fingers were so slick that he had two fingertips slipping into Malcolm’s puckered hole. Controlling himself from pushing in aggressively, Gil waited because he wanted in. And Malcolm let him. Pinkie and ring finger opened his ass. Gil’s wet thumb circled another hot spiral on the overwhelmingly sensitive mound between Malcolm’s little balls and Gil’s middle and index fingers dipped into Malcolm’s birthing slit. 

Malcolm came in all his holes, each sweet cry swallowed down by Gil.

Malcolm was sated beyond the point of swimming right. Gil held Malcolm while he tread the freshwater pool. Malcolm’s arms and legs surrounded him like tendrils of flowering vines. Gil stroked his neck, his back, his ass, his pussy, his crack. Mischief cut through Malcolm’s slack jawed contentment as he moved his hips and rubbed himself against Gil’s cock. The water was transparently clear, gracing Malcolm with the unhindered sight of Gil’s magnificent cock biding near the surface.

Malcolm begged so sweetly; Gil caved and let Malcolm tongue at the few inches of himself bobbing out of the water. Gil savored the feel of Malcolm’s hungry mouth, warm and somehow wetter than the pool engulfing the both of them.

Malcolm’s fingers and palms stroked up the creases of Gil’s legs, Gil’s abs which were firm when pressed but had lovable give when Malcolm’s touches gentled. Their eyes locked as Malcolm gulped him down. Gil pulled Malcolm’s hands from his plum colored nipples, their fingers entwined, and he kissed Malcolm’s knuckles, restraining Malcolm with his love.

Malcolm hanged from the strength of Gil’s hands, hooked on how Gil filled him deliciously. Unable to hold back, Gil shuddered until Malcolm lapped up every drop.

Once they were able to come back to themselves, they noticed that Malcolm’s horse escaped. The clever animal hoofed along the branch upon which it was tied, loosening the bridle with the snap of waxy leafed twigs. Then the horse made off, carrying Malcolm’s clothes. 

Once Gil was done laughing, he sincerely focused on their dilemma.

“Just drop me off at the villa. You still have your horse,” said Malcolm.

“No, you’ll burn all over. That’s not happening,” refused Gil.

Gil rubbed his beard. “And I don’t want anyone to see you like this.”

A touch of possessiveness edged his normally affable tone.

“You are mine.”

Malcolm’s expression shifted from irritation to disbelief. Gil caught his look and he grabbed at Malcolm’s face for soft kisses.

“Okay, Daddy,” said Malcolm, dimpling.

He wore Gil’s white T-shirt. Gil groaned at Malcolm’s wet body showing through the thin cotton. Gil saw everything and he adjusted himself in his pants.

They were fine when Gil relented and put Malcolm on the saddle before mounting up. Malcolm’s horse loped after Gil’s horse. Malcolm savored the beloved pair of arms holding him safe and the sensation of a breeze from the horse’s movements drying his skin flushed by the tropical sun. They stayed in their room until dusk. Gil used up the travel size tube of aloe patting it all over Malcolm.

Gil was showering while Malcolm admired the broad and indescribably nuanced horizon from their private balcony. He felt like he would float away without his daughter’s weight anchoring him to a darkening world.

Out of the aching in his heart, Malcolm remembered the first song he’d shared with her, and it alleviated the itching bug bites around his ankles and his sunburned legs.

_And lone will be the night_  
_If I cannot commune with Thee_  
_Nor find in Thee my light._  
_The darkness of the world, I fear,_  
_Would in my home abide._

Malcolm was startled when a man’s tenor pierced the sluggish and humid air. Gil, wearing basketball shorts, joined him on the balcony. Their fingers rooted into one as did their voices, nested within their shared place like a pair of birds as the heavens revealed themselves.

_O Savior, stay this night with me;_  
_Behold, 'tis eventide._

* * *

The next day, in light of Malcolm’s sunburn, the two of them restricted their outing to the private garden which was enclosed by stone walls heavily draped with vines, moss, and wallflowers of many varied and stunning colors. Much of the garden was shaded by palm trees.

Tropical fish swam in a pond with lily pads and pink lotus flowers. One could cross the pond by stepping on stone pillars that broke the calm surface. Occasionally, the splash of a fish jumping out of the water for a crawling snack cut through bird song and the croaking of non-poisonous toads. Many of the trees were planted for shade and for seasonal flower blooms, but Gil and Malcolm found a mango tree. 

In rain forest climate, Yorkie and Kelly did not maintain a trimmed lawn. Much of the garden was mulched with tan bark or filled with sand and gravel. The garden path matched the goldenrod and aquamarine stones of the villa’s courtyard. Stone benches were available but not ideal for their picnic lunch. Neither were the braided hammocks speckled with wood beads and sea shells. Luckily, the property owners installed outdoor four post beds wreathed in mosquito nets. Malcolm picked the bed where the succulents and cacti grew more wildly.

“Less foot traffic by the gardener or landscapers,” reasoned Malcolm.

They spread out large beach towels striped coral red and sea blue and had themselves sliced meat and cut vegetables which Gil grilled over charcoal. They would enjoy marinated skewers. Malcolm could only stomach chicken and veggies that didn’t dissolve in broth. He hated vegetable soup and got nauseated when he saw it.

Gil kept the chicken and the pork separated. He planned to have good ass BBQ beef when he took out Malcolm to the nearest town to check out the night life.

Malcolm sipped from young coconut through a striped paper straw, straight from the shell.

Music played from his phone as he propped his head up on one hand and laid on his side. His cloth shorts rolled up his thighs and he was shirtless. Gil squinted at the mosquito net draping the outdoor bed suspiciously.

“Is that a book?” Gil asked.

“Not a manual or a textbook,” said Malcolm, half distracted.

“What’s it about Bright? Talk at me if you have to.”

“It is about homicide. You’d like it. This was written by a retired military police member conducting a meta analysis on the effects of long-term violence on, well, uniformed personnel. Much of his principles are what you see in combat training for LEO. I’m fascinated by this section on stress responses.”

Gil stood near the smoke which warded off bugs and contentedly soaked in a free lecture AKA Malcolm’s ravings.

Malcolm emerged from the bed to relieve himself. Gil plated their food and broke out the bagged sangria. Malcolm dumped frozen fruit chunks into their cups, cleverly chilling the wine.

Gil almost choked on a pineapple chunk as he watched Malcolm’s lips blow at the hot meat, test the temperature with a flick of his tongue and bob his head down to suck the morsel into the swell of his cheek.

Gil knew that Malcolm ate strangely due to the occasional tooth ache triggered by extreme temperatures. But Gil couldn’t stop watching the shine on those lips as Malcolm complimented him.

At some point, they dozed off and had themselves a disgustingly gluttonous siesta. Malcolm’s music was still going when Gil stirred from the very welcome mouth on his cock.

Gil yanked Malcolm's hair and instinctively thrust deep, forgetting their heavy meal. Malcolm pulled back, burped, then knocked back the dregs of his sangria before helping himself to cock.

“Fuck, Malcolm. Baby. I don’t want to fuck your mouth. You choked down chicken earlier.” 

Gil’s cock slid from Malcolm’s greased lips in a loud and meaty pop.

“Then we are at an impasse. I need to get you off, Daddy. Right now.”

“You’ve got me close. Wouldn’t take much if you sit on me.”

“Fuck, yes. I can ride Daddy’s cock.”

Gil shivered, his hips jerking from Malcolm’s lips speaking filth into his skin.

“But I require lubricant somehow.” Malcolm gripped himself while he circle his thumb on the head of Gil’s spit slicked cock. 

Gil covered his face when Malcolm left the bed. He was in danger of prematurely releasing from the sight of Malcolm naked and erect, kneeling on top of him.

When Malcolm returned, his greased hand massaged Gil’s dick, his touch warming Gil’s length as he tightened his fingers, encircling Gil’s thickness. Malcolm straddled Gil’s thighs, spread himself and arched, gifting his lover with an enticing show of his finger then his hand opening the dip of his ass. Malcolm possessed a sweet face and sinful fingers.

Gil grabbed his butt, curling his fingertips in a wave of teasing strokes that made Malcolm quake entirely. He thrust his hips to music beats and squatted down.

Gil was of such length that his cock skimmed Malcolm’s nipple when Malcolm curled his torso.

“Daddy so thick,” Malcolm croaked, tears in his throat.

“Slow up, Malcolm. Daddy can wait.”

Gil laced his hands at Malcolm’s lower back, pulling him flush to his chest. Gil kicked off his shorts and focused on easing the painful stretch that Malcolm’s body resisted. Gil touched the nape of his neck, skimmed his knuckles along Malcolm’s tensed muscles.

“You’re a good boy. You’re almost here,” said Gil. Each time Malcolm looked him in the eyes and accepted Gil’s kiss, he would push himself up into an arch and lean more of his weight into a heavy sweet tortuous drag until Gil had to grab his legs and squeeze hard to stop from rolling Malcolm onto his back and just forcing him.

But Malcolm’s soft mouth and cautious trust kept Gil in check for their first slow ride. They weren’t in a hurry. Nor were they driven by urgent heat. Gil was privileged and blessed by Malcolm’s choice to be with him. Biological imperatives be damned.

“I love you, Daddy!” Malcolm cried as he reared up and plunged through waves of suffering. He submerged himself into the burning stretch until his desire for Gil overpowered the urge to hide from pain.

“Baby, can I? Jesus,” Gil moaned.

In answer, Malcolm sucked in his gut and rocked his hips before flexing his kegels. He had a lot of practice flexing his ass after his firstborn.

Gil swore and gripped Malcolm’s ass cheeks, spreading them apart to clamp them in his palms, mind blown as he rode through clenched muscles, knowing Malcolm deliberately entrapped him, made Gil want to break Malcolm, as wrong as that sounded.

Gil slowed, making sure from Malcolm’s eyes that Malcolm was with him, nowhere else, with no one else.

“You feel me, Malcolm?”

“Yes,” Malcolm breathed.

Gil sat up and kissed his throat. With Gil moving in him, making his voice soar, his body lift, his blood simmer, Malcolm wailed uncontrollably until his skin was streaming hot slick all over.

Gil moved him onto his back and lifted both of his legs, locking them up. The four post bed creaked from their fucking. Gil’s cock seated deeply when he paused. His fingers brushed hair stuck to Malcolm’s dampened face, the heel of his palm on Malcolm’s cheek.

“Are we good, kid?” Gil asked. Though he was dying to finish, Malcolm’s wet cheek captured his attention.

Malcolm ran his left hand along Gil’s shoulder, down the small curly tuft of salt and pepper chest hairs.

“I’m fine. It’s a lot I’m processing. Oh Gil, I want more. Give it to me, Daddy.”

Malcolm fingered the gaping rim where Gil felt him tighten, watched how Malcolm’s prick firmed up until it pointed skyward. Gil took hold of Malcolm’s prick, squeezing the base of it while pounding short and hard thrusts. The sky was shining, the birds were singing, and Malcolm was shouting Gil’s name.

“Come on, Bright. Take it like a good boy.” Gil’s head tipped back, his groan thrumming through Malcolm’s body which was finely tuned like an instrument of pleasure.

Malcolm didn’t want it to be over but for Gil's ravenous face, Gil’s golden-brown skin also glossed with sweat, and his voice telling Malcolm what to do. Malcolm gave in. He gave it up to his alpha. 

Gil’s laugh was music to Malcolm’s ears already fuzzy from afterglow when Gil figured out how Malcolm problem solved their lube issue. Olive oil, extra virgin, streaked Malcolm’s thighs but it was not nearly as conspicuous as the puddle of cream in which Malcolm blissfully wallowed.

* * *

Malcolm slowed as he approached Gil waiting for him on the unpaved lane leading away from the villa. Gil wore his high waist jeans as he leaned against the motorcycle. His sunglasses and his watch gleamed on his gorgeously bronzed skin. He wore a navy V-neck. While his slight gut strained the waist of his jeans, Malcolm’s gaze was drawn to the shadow beneath his pecs and the attractive breadth of his upper arms.

Gil’s head tipped back to drink water. As he raised his arm, the movement caused the sunlight to highlight his athletic upper body. The water bottle collapsed pathetically like Malcolm’s lungs in his chest.

Malcolm recovered himself and stuck out his thumb, bringing a wide grin to Gil’s lips.

A cloud drifted through the blue sky, reflected in Gil’s sunglasses.

“Wanna ride, kid?”

Malcolm licked his lips, blinking his eyes rapidly from the intense sunbeams reflected on Gil’s watch. “Depends on where you take me, Daddy.” 

Gil laughed and tucked a motorcycle helmet under his arm as he went to Malcolm. He raised the helmet over Malcolm’s head and pulled it down snug.

“Watch your head. Can’t take you anywhere without one of these, Bright.”

Malcolm swatted Gil’s hands from his buckles and stomped past him.

“Where we headed to? Should I change clothes?” pouted Malcolm.

Gil’s eyes snapped from Malcolm’s legs moving in those shorts. The SPF 90 sunblock which Malcolm sprayed on made his skin shine.

“You’re fine. Let’s hit the coast,” said Gil.

It was Malcolm’s turn to stare as Gil kicked his sleek leg over the seat and mounted up. Luckily the visor of Malcolm’s helmet concealed his intent scrutiny. Boot cut jeans suited Gil, bringing out the clean lines of his form as he leaned forward.

Despite their helmets knocking together, Malcolm tingled with excitement as he pawed at the denim encasing Gil’s spread thighs. Gil’s back muscles twitched as he reacted to Malcolm fitted against him with the engine motor grinding beneath. The chemical burn of the exhaust filled their nostrils before the stilted air rushed through their bodies. Gil’s belt bit into Malcolm’s forearms but he wouldn’t have given up the solid and reliable feel of Gil’s body, not for anything, as they motored under open skies and traversed roads that were new to them.

Gil staunchly kept his visor set in its default position, not willing to compromise safe visibility in case of bug splatter or unexpected debris as he steered defensively around other vehicles and the occasional commercial big rig truck. 

He yelled at Malcolm over the roaring of engine and winds. “Take a gander at the coastline!”

Malcolm turned his head and raised his visor to look, careful to shield his watering eyes. He gasped at waves of enormous crystalline blue waters churning foam and salt along the volcanic rock and the broad and green swaths of wild growth.

They stopped at a sanded beach speckled with sharp rocks.

Malcolm’s breath hitched as he counted the number of steps forward he had made in the packed wet sand. 

Gil hovered in his sight, his fingertips just within range. He didn’t miss the tension which drained blood from Malcolm’s lips, the strained lines between his voluminous brows, the glassy haze blanking his facial muscles.

“What are you seeing, kid?” 

The ocean washed out Malcolm’s imprints as though he had made no further progress since his deliverance from John’s keeping. Malcolm turned his desolate eyes to Gil.

“He’s here, following my footprints, like I never got away. I’m still broken,” he said over the keening of the gulls.

“Why can’t I just turn it off and be happy with you? Why do I have to work so hard not to be in the hole? I’m getting what I wanted. I have to smash through a wall of pain to feel you loving me. It has to hurt, Gil, or I can’t be sure it’s real.”

“What do you want, Malcolm? Right now?” Gil asked.

“Kiss me.”

Gil ravished his mouth, fingers catching hard in Malcolm’s hair.

“Is that enough,” Gil said.

Malcolm hesitated.

Gil slapped him. While it stung Malcolm’s cheek, the surprise of it moreso than the sting knocked Malcolm into the sand. 

Gil studied his eyes. “Its not enough, huh?”

Gil offered his hand to Malcolm. Malcolm accepted it and Gil twisted his arm and kicked his legs out from under him. The sand cushioned the impact on his knees but an iron grip knocked the breath from him. He really felt it in his socket.

Gil kissed at the corner of his parted mouth. Malcolm turned his head for more. Though his eyes watered and his body protested, he could feel the tender pressure of Gil’s lips, the solid press of his cheek, the slow drag of his beard hairs. He couldn’t look away, in case it was John’s beard triggering his skin.

“You want police brutality, Bright?” Gil teased. He bit Malcolm’s ear. “Tell Daddy. Do I need to use force?”

Malcolm’s legs spread in the sand. He pushed his ass into Gil’s erection, wriggling his hips because he was so turned on that the friction of his shorts almost had him stringing pearls on the sand.

“Yes, Daddy.” Malcolm groaned. “Force me, Daddy.”

Gil released him and Malcolm fell forward, feeling sore. He was soon gasping and shaking when Gil tugged down his shorts and spanked him bare. Malcolm quietly shuddered from Gil fingering his puckered hole while gripping his hot, red skin.

“Daddy, I came! Please!” cried Malcolm.

Gil hooked his finger inside Malcolm and walloped his cherry red ass with more punishing blows until Malcolm screamed his release, screamed for Daddy.

* * *

Though Gil went to the trouble and expenditure of hiring a taxi and taking Malcolm to the nearest town for drinks at a busy music club, he did not succeed in dragging Malcolm down into a conga line. Though a bearded woman started the conga line in her long skirt with bananas and kiwis piled high atop her beehive hairstyle, Malcolm was not a go. 

Malcolm did, however, go for broke in an unexpectedly cut throat game of limbo. Knowing what Malcolm could do with that ass, Gil spilled his drink hollering over the din of rowdy locals for Malcolm to get lower and lower. Even Malcolm had his limits. Gil had to adjust his pants watching Malcolm spilled onto a sticky floor and wheezing out blushy giggles, toppled by a long green bamboo cane used as a limbo bar.

The taxi driver dropped them off at the end of the mile long driveway to their villa and would go no further. Gil was prepared to fight but Malcolm paid the driver and exited the taxi. His legs and his ass looked so good in his pinstriped white clothes, each curve and crevice highlighted by moonlight. Shadows played up and down hypnotically along Malcolm’s slender but toned thighs.

Gil also couldn’t resist the look that Malcolm gave before he turned to sashay his hips, white suit jacket fluttering over his shoulder. They traipsed down a flattened, but unpaved road tinged with blue. Gil paced his steps, kept slightly behind Malcolm’s shoulder while they held hands; he was in no rush, with a fantastic view. The breeze cooled their sweat. Malcolm shivered and Gil helped him with the suit jacket. Leaves rustled around them from the few groupings of mango trees where the fruit orchards thinned out.

“Are you alright, Malcolm?” Gil asked when he felt how hot Malcolm’s skin blazed.

“Yes, never better. It’s probably from making a fool of myself pretending to mamba,” said Malcolm, licking his lips.

Gil hugged him around his waist, admired the shape of Malcolm’s eyes and the emotion within them, brimming like a full glass, for Gil to drink up. They both laughed, startled when Gil’s stomach rumbled.

Malcolm gulped, ridiculously turned on from Gil springing up to grab at the thickest low branch and hoisting himself partially off the soft dirt, swiping into the night air until they heard wooden stems snapping and fruit thudding down. Malcolm stared at Gil’s arms flexing and his ass rounded from how he used his legs to gain momentum.

“Oh my God, Gil. Are you... Are you stealing from our hosts?” asked Malcolm.

Gil peeled off his shirt and bundled two of the three mangoes that he nabbed.

“I only wanted one but, well, can’t leave evidence.” Gil grinned, his teeth and silver beard gleaming.

Pulling out a multi-tool pocket knife from his back pocket, Gil used a small portable blade to peel thin slivers. 

The moment Gil bit into the stolen fruit, slick from Malcolm’s cunt soaked his pants.

“I’ll, uh, let you finish,” said Malcolm, weakly. He limped around the mango tree, his fingers shaking on the wood bark. He was so tight that it felt like the seam of his clothes were molesting him. Malcolm thrust his hand down his ruined pants, eyes rolling to the back of his head and he stroked himself for relief. His other hand undid his shirt buttons, flapping his lapels to cool his skin. Malcolm closed his eyes, straining his ears for the wet sucking sounds that Gil’s mouth made on sweet flesh and Gil’s happy throaty moan as he gulped down ripe, gushing juices.

Malcolm was four fingers in when Gil followed him.

“Gil, you didn’t finish,” Malcolm panted. He saw the bit of fruit pulped in Gil’s hand.

“I want to finish in you,” said Gil.

Passion gathered in Gil’s eyes which were fine and dark like oil at midnight. Juices dripped from Gil’s touch, his presence fragrant as cinnamon or ginger or an aroma of a delicious savor. Gil nurtured Malcolm with fruit, then his fingers, and then the warmth of his mouth. Where once Malcolm felt nothing but his own senseless bulk, Gil stirred him until Malcolm basked in their embrace.

Malcolm sucked mango from Gil’s fingers before Gil unclasped Malcolm’s pants. Gil went on his knees in the loose dirt and Malcolm kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his bottoms. Gil’s fingers pushed into Malcolm’s hole and entwined with Malcolm’s thoroughly soiled fingers, thrusting with his hand until Malcolm wailed and tumbled backwards onto hard bark, toes curled into the fertile soil. Gil’s sticky tongue licked at Malcolm’s firm little prick, both tasting and sweetening the flesh all at once.

Gil sprang up and pressed Malcolm into the fruit tree before kissing Malcolm like he was starving. Gil groped at Malcolm’s waist, his stomach, his chest, fingers leaving sticky tracks beneath Malcolm’s clothes. He smelled like fruit, desire, and smoke.

“Tell me you want this,” pleaded Gil. “I need to hear you say it.”

Malcolm shook off his suit jacket and his shirt which rested in pieces in the dirt. He wrapped his arms around Gil’s neck, kissed Gil’s beard, his jawline, sucked where he felt Gil’s pulse, until Gil’s heart was thundering against his naked skin.

“Breed me, Daddy. Knot me good. I want your baby, Daddy,” said Malcolm.

As he seduced Gil, Malcolm could already picture a little brother for Joan, with a full head of hair and hazel eyes and the set of Daddy’s jaw and Daddy’s marvelous lips.

Gil moved Malcolm’s hand onto his cock, made him feel the engorged base that would open Malcolm and plug him full of Daddy’s come. Malcolm’s leg curled around Gil’s waist, working his core as Gil gripped his ass and lifted him. Malcolm trembled all over just from Gil’s cock brushing his balls and dipped between his sensitive cunt lips. He moved wrong, lost purchase on the tree park, and Gil surged forward to catch him. His ass smacked obscenely against Gil’s legs.

Malcolm arched back, breathless cries leaking from his mouth stretched from the luscious pain of Gil forced into his womb, planted sharp and deep. His back was scraped to hell from the tree, stinging exquisitely as though he were whipped.

“Jesus fuck, kid. You just.” Gil growled, his words bit off from Malcolm’s rocking hips. His arms hooked under Malcolm’s knees, anchored onto the thickest branches bearing Malcolm’s squirming weight. Any time Malcolm slipped too far down, Gil thrust harder, rising mightily as Malcolm fell over and over.

Gil felt it on his cock when Malcolm came first. Gil’s legs were coated in warmth and then cooled by the night breeze fanning out an irresistible scent that Gil could taste in his throat. When he opened his eyes, he was in paradise, inside bliss hidden deep in Malcolm’s scarred and once broken body.

Soon to be twice broken.

“Give it to me, Bright. Wanna feel you squirt. Stroke off and feel good,” Gil said. His knot swelled, pulsing as he circled his hips, making his knot feel thicker inside Malcolm’s stretched hole.

"Mark me, Daddy. Where no one else can touch. Please."

Gil pulled Malcolm from his perch in the fruit laden branches and cradled him. They groaned with each sinking movement that dragged the swell of Gil's knot, seating him deeper.

"I want to. To do it over that bastard's mark. But. Fuck. Why did he pick there. I can't get at it." Gil's rough voice sharpened in anger.

"I can take it. Gil, please. Doesn't have to be perfect, just has to be there," Malcolm begged.

Gil wasn't perfect, but he was there, exactly what Malcolm needed in a man.

"How flexible are you, baby? You still do hot yoga?"

Malcolm licked his teeth, toes pointed toward the treetop, as he pulled his right leg beside his ear, splitting himself on Gil's cock. He looked unbelievably delectable, like a creature of moonlight and fantasy.

Gil turned him towards the right and kissed the back of his knee. Malcolm cried out, soft and high.

"Malcolm," said Gil, voice rising in pitched urgency.

"Give it to me, Daddy." Malcolm gripped up the limbs of the tree. He bit the inside of his cheeks as bark chafed his ankle.

Gil fucked into him, knocking them off balance, sending them into the ground. Gil took the impact of their fall, shouting as he hit dirt, buried inside Malcolm. With Malcolm screaming his alpha's name, Gil climaxed into a black hole that took him to a place of rapture.

Their rutting descended into savagery once Gil's teeth pierced his flesh. Malcolm's head snapped back, his thighs quaking, jerking his prick while grinding on Gil's knot. Malcolm went limp as blood dripped between his shoulders and his own come pooled in his belly button.

" **Bear my children** ," Gil commanded. 

His alpha's voice ignited a spark that arced up his spine, awakening every point of pleasure that whipped his blood into a frenzied rush, as heady as spiced wine. Malcolm gasped and groped the dirt as each sultry wave overwhelmed his senses. Gil's fingers clamped around his outstretched hands.

Gil heard the tears in Malcolm’s voice before he felt the hot droplets running from the corners of Malcolm’s eyes.

Gil shifted, folding himself around Malcolm as living armor. He nosed into Malcolm’s hair and tongued at the mark. Gil had agonized for weeks, but he wisely chose an area easily concealed by shirt collars where he could intimately touch Malcolm.

“You want more than one? From me?” quavered Malcolm.

“I do. Do you?” Gil asked. His hold on Malcolm was easy, light, and free of sorrows yet stronger than one thousand chains.

“I love them already,” answered Malcolm. He turned his head, offering up his sweet lips, in bliss as he submitted to the man filling him with life abundant.

* * *

Jessica padded upstairs to the rental unit on the attic level. She carried baby girl and a diaper bag that also insulated a chilled bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape Cuvée Reservée.

The strains of her husband's classical music played from his gramophone. He was removing foam rubber and stage make up from his face. He kept his hair short, dark, and brown; he had shaved for his outing earlier that day. 

Garbed in a terrycloth robe, Martin turned to his girls. He stored the hanger with his beige trench and brown waistcoat on a wheeled clothing rack hung with many outfits, different looks. The tartan bow tie was flung into his basket of accessories which included time pieces of bygone eras. Skulls perched on shelves of metal lattice, attired with eye wear and trimmed lace wigs.

Martin noted Jessica's wan expression and he almost skipped to them, cuddling his granddaughter to his bosom.

"You've got her?" Jessica asked.

"Happiness, thy name art Martin de Whitly. I've got you and her," he said, fanciful in cloistered domesticity.

"And more on the way," Jessica informed him. She made herself at home on his suede couch. Martin had put out his vegan nibbles.

"Well me oh my," Martin breathed. He sat by his wife, almost beside himself. "Is it that time already?"

"You've got a problem with mixed children? Were you hoping for blond white cherubs?" Jessica scoffed.

"I do not subscribe to the fallible tenets of racial supremacy. I'll have you know that I met Dr. Benjamin Carson at a concert and we both came away the better for it. In fact, I'm one of the few killers to cross over ethnic divides in my selection of human studies." Martin was indignant with baby in his lap.

Jessica handed Martin a wineglass and tipped the bottle between her lips. She let him run on and bided her time. How very fortunate for her that wine was vegan.

"Say what you will about my interests, but my extracurricular activities gave me the professional edge when approving dosing levels for minorities. For example, blacks feel more pain than Caucasians but they're frequently under-medicated. Pernicious issue, blame the system. I took care to compensate for that bias."

"Then why wouldn't you want more grandchildren?" Jessica asked.

"I do wish Malcolm picked better for himself, a person closer to his age, who's well connected, a wider scope of disciplines, who can keep his interest. A desk cop closer to retirement than not? Please. My boy is as restless as me."

"You think, as his serial killer father, that you could pick his alpha?" Jessica drawled.

"I suppose I did sign away my rights to butt in, huh? In blood, no less. I don't like it," Martin opined as though his high and mighty standards still applied to his son's choices.

Jessica kissed his pout. It was jarring for Jessica to feel his bare lips without the tickling hairs. 

"I'm not thrilled myself. They're in love. And if they stay in love, we can have this. No such thing as a third chance, grand-père," Jessica said.

He beamed at the reminder. Martin planted a kiss on the child of his son and his protégé. He smooched her tiny brow. 

The long reaching effects of his personal decisions throughout the seasons of his life were inextricably woven throughout the causes of her existence, of how she came to be. Martin had brought her into this world and he was steeply, dauntingly, fatally invested.

"Jessie, if I had feelings, they would be for you. I won't lose sight of that, not again. Not with this little one to mind."

"Damn you, Martin. If you did, I would love you anyway. God help me. I'm so in love with you." 

Jessica put down the bottle to flick away her tears. While she wore her bulletproof matte foundation, she was used to makeup that cracked under pressure. Jessica was too far along in years to change her ways.

Martin gripped her hand, felt her pulse escalate at his irrevocable touch. Their wedding bands dug in. He kissed the apple of her cheeks, pleased with the wife of his youth. 

Jessica leaned into his temple and they both gazed adoringly at their blessing, with more on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, soft ending doesn't make what happened to Malcolm okay. I couldn't bear to end this project on a bleak note.
> 
> Thanks to the original prompter and the prodigal_kink meme page. Thanks for slogging through this tale.
> 
> I took Junipero, Yorkie, and Kelly from Black Mirror. ^_^ Unabashedly.


	5. How Martin Evaded Police | Deleted Scene

The police were an impediment. Martin wasn’t exactly shaking in his boots, but he did need to find cover. The quiet red and blue flashers of ubiquitous cruisers were dreadfully titillating.

He nearly walked past a slender person in a curly red wig, black shades, and a plunging black dress. The slit of the dress flaunted a blue and white garter belt. Their nails were polished black. They were huddled up on the stoop crying.

“Are you quite alright?” Martin asked.

“I think I’ve lost my best friend. We had a fight. Whole thing went down in flames. Don’t think I’ll see them again.”

“Well, I know just the thing. You need chocolate. Doctor’s orders,” Martin said.

“Do you have any?” they asked.

“No, but the night is young. And so are you, my dear. How about we earn the chocolate with socially acceptable panhandling?”

“I’m not a dear, I’m a demon,” they said.

A furry werewolf boy, a troupe of teens in bedraggled gray cloaks walked by, as did a young woman with long blond wig and large turnip earrings robed as witch.

“And besides, you don’t have a costume.” The demon donned black horns.

“We’ll see what 10 bucks can fetch,” said Martin.

After emerging from a Halloween Spirit pop-up shop, Martin was strategically dressed for cover with an unwitting accomplice.

“Can you buy me cigarettes?” asked the demon. They had their chocolate, eating it as they strolled door to door, shop to shop.

“Best not,” said Martin. “I can’t very well break character, can I?”

Martin pointed to the dollar quality wings sprouted limply along his back. He was already molting.

“So which of them are you?’ asked the demon. “Michael, Gabriel, Sandalphon?”

“Michael. You could call me Michael,” answered Martin.

“Doesn’t that one have a sword? Let me guess, dropped yours.”

“I’m more of an angel of mercy,” Martin said.

The police were circling in a tighter concentration than Martin found comfortable. They were near a bookshop in SoHo but it was dark despite the hours of operation listed on the door. Martin rather missed hiding in texts.

“I’m famished, demon. Is there a decent spot close to here for good eats? Doesn’t have to be the Ritz. My treat.”

“No tricks? You’re paying?”

“Absolument. I’m playing the good angel tonight.”

“I know a crêpes place that’s still open.” The demon arched its brow. “What, you don’t like?”

“Oh, once you’ve had them in Paris,” said Martin, leaving off the ‘s’ and waving his hand vaguely. He thought of Paris in the spring with Jessica. “Any chance they have vegan options?”

“I think it’s more of a desserts place,” said the demon. “Strawberries and nutella are vegan. Pretty tempting, yeah?”

The demon strutted down the block and hailed a taxi, calling after Martin. “C’mon! Get in Angel!”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Temptation accomplished,” he muttered.

The crêpes place did have savory vegan options. 

“This is a miracle,” said Martin, polishing off his plate of savory chickpea crêpes with veggie ragout.

“Can I say somethin’?” queried the demon to his left.

“You are a demon.”

“Ditch the ‘stache. You look like a badly disguised magician. With cheap tricks like pack of cards and dead dove.”

“I could be a serial killer,” said Martin.

“Are you going to serial kill me?”

“Firstly, killing people is high profile. Secondly, I think your friend would miss you.”

“Hnngk, you’re a softie. The only thing you’re killin’ tonight is your crêpe.”

Nobody looked at them twice, an angel and a demon keeping one another company while the authorities from higher up combed the streets tenaciously as though the world were coming to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends are the best. Thank you for your encouragement and all the inspiration that I did not ask for LOL.


End file.
